St Mungo's
by Luminous Marble
Summary: St. Mungo's: a bustling hospital where one can see it all. Working there? Even better.
1. First Shift

Chapter One: First Shift

"Get me some bloodroot, _stat_!" Healer Susan Bones shouted for the third time. "What's the holdup?" She began to pinch together oozing wounds with one hand while waving her wand with the other.

An orderly, Gregory Goyle, floated a second comatose patient through the doors of the Creature Induced Injuries ward. "Had to sort out if these were bites or not. Not." He looked at the patient. "No, scratches, like the other. There's still one more to come up. They haven't caught the dugbog yet."

"No, where's Weasley?" Susan fused the gash from ankle to thigh that had rendered her patient unconscious.

He grunted. "Dunno."

She looked up. Weasley was the hospital's best nurse, and she needed the bloodroot five minutes ago. Even though she had been able to fuse some of the patient's wounds, she needed the bloodroot to keep her patient from going into shock. She'd never lost a patient. She was determined that today wouldn't be the first time.

Goyle plodded around the bed, stopping next to Susan, and leaned over her shoulder.

"What?" she snapped. 

"He's going to seize." Goyle placed a thick hand on the mattress on either side of the patient.

Susan jumped back. Goyle might move slowly, but he had a sixth sense about the injured and when it actually worked, it was never wrong. As if to confirm, the patient's back arched and he began to writhe on the bed, safe from rolling off due to Goyle's human barrier. Left with nothing to do, Susan paced back and forth until the redhead she was waiting for walked in the door.

"Weasley. About time. Bloodroot?"

"Here." Ron Weasley gave up the vial and bent over, one hand on a knee and the other pressed against his side. "We were...out. Had...to...run down the...street."

"We were out?" Her brow wrinkled and she uncorked the vial. Turning her attention back to the dugbog bite, she attempted to pour some of the infusion into her patient's mouth. "Goyle, can you hold his head still?"

With Goyle's hand on his forehead, the patient's wriggling quelled enough for Susan to spill some of the bloodroot across his mouth. As soon as the potion reached his lips, the wounded man relaxed.

"Thanks," Susan said without looking up.

"I'll head back downstairs, then, until we figure out who is who with that broom crash." Ron shook his head. "Tangled up mess, that is."

"Ron, wait." Susan paused while Goyle pawed through her patient's clothes for identification and left. She lowered her voice. "We were out? Are there missing supplies again?"

Ron poked his head out into the corridor, checking in both directions before closing the door. "Just the bloodroot, but I'll go and look again." Worry crossed his face. "I can't think what anyone would want it for. We're running low on a lot of things. Have you heard from Neville?"

"No." Susan turned to look out the window. Neville had gone to Brazil weeks ago to search out a Harmony Palm. They were rumored to be restorative, especially for memories--not to mention that their leaves, brewed as a tea, were a strong sedative. As hospital apothecary, Neville was responsible for researching and locating new magical plants for the treatment of wizards. However, as hospital apothecary, he was also responsible for keeping the dispensary well-stocked. The staff of St. Mungo's had been covering for him as long as they could but sooner or later an administrator was bound to notice that he was on a perpetual vacation.

__

At the very least, the administration might refuse him any more time off to take a honeymoon next year, Susan mused, twisting the engagement ring on her finger. _If he ever comes back. Stop thinking that. He'll come back. He promised._

"Well," Ron said slowly, "I'm sure he's just been...delayed somewhere. Delayed. Maybe wizarding travel is slow, and Neville's not the type to mix with Muggles so much. And you know how he gets when he's after something. Doesn't give up easily, that one." Ron laid a hand on her shoulder awkwardly before heading out of the room.

Susan heaved a weary sigh and trudged back toward the dugbog bites. Both of the patients she attended here in the Dai Llewellyn ward had their eyes closed and their breathing was normal. With the bleeding stopped, Susan stepped back to survey her handiwork. If not for the delayed pain one had after a dugbog wound, it might be pleasant to switch roles and be in a hospital bed for a change, waited on hand and foot by doctors and nurses who could provide the fine care St. Mungo's boasted.

So fine, in fact, that Susan had been on her feet for the last twenty-three hours. Maybe she could rest for just a moment in one of the empty beds. She'd just lay down for a minute to rest her muscles, and her eyelids were the most overused muscles of all....

***

Downstairs, Ron Weasley was only a few hours into his first shift of the week and already his industrial lime-green scrub robes were splattered with all manner of fluids, some bodily, some not.

"Erm, I think that's _your_ leg...this one's his. No, no, don't Apparate now! You'll only make things worse." Ron poked his wand between tangled limbs. The Beater from the Wimbourne Wasps had his arm clean through the chest of Puddlemere United's Keeper. They'd crashed just when one or both of them had tried to Apparate to get out of the way, as far as Ron could piece together from the bits of story that weren't oaths (his vocabulary was growing with each passing minute), and the splinching that had resulted was spectacular. 

This was a job for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Except it wasn't exactly an accident. Ron scratched his head. Didn't somebody owe him a favor? Maybe he could send them up to Spell Damage. After all, the problem had happened while they were on brooms, but that wasn't the _cause_. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that he probably held the greater balance of I.O.Us. He decided to work this out himself.

"You bloody fool! I want a real Healer!" the Beater yelled, brandishing his bat. Ron hadn't been able to get it away from him--he'd held onto it as if it were a safety blanket.

The Keeper let out a howl of rage as the bat caught him across the back of the head. "_You're_ the bloody fool! Put that thing _down_ before I shove it sideways up your--"

"I am a real Healer!" Ron added at the top of his lungs, which stopped the argument. He nearly cracked a grin. They were finally distracted.

"No, you're not. You're a nurse," the Beater growled. "You've got your name right there on your robes and it says _nurse_ underneath. You can't fool me. I want the finest care. I demand the finest care!"

The Keeper agreed, sort of. "I deserve the finest care, too!" He snatched the bat right out of the Beater's hand and grunted: "Let's get him."

They jumped off the gurney in tandem with the skill and grace that is to be expected of Quidditch players. In other words, they fell from the gurney, but their athletic prowess did keep them from being hurt more than a little. Also, in the flight to the floor, they became so preoccupied with protecting their own that they managed to separate themselves without more need for magic.

They might have been rivals on the Quidditch field, but they were on the same side as they chased Ron Weasley up and down the halls of the Artifact Accidents department.

***

Muriel Hopkirk, St. Mungo's Welcome Witch, often had something to say. When she did, everybody heard it. That is to say: they heard it, processed the information, and put it to good use, if they had half a brain. This hospital was _hers._ Her family had helped found the hospital four hundred years ago, and a Hopkirk had been on staff ever since.

Everyone knew that St. Mungo's couldn't function without her--or so she told herself each and every day. She did so because everyone else, being preoccupied, forgot. Muriel found it most effective when the ritual was performed first thing upon arrival for a shift. She would drape her robes artfully over the rolling chair behind the Inquiries Desk and take out a hand mirror. "_You_,"she usually said to herself, "are the reason for living, and you keep the patients alive." Then, she would go over her thickly-applied lipstick once again, making sure that the red lines were on the exact edges of her lips. It was absolutely unthinkable that she might have to address a visitor or patient when looking less than her best. And, after all, her smile was her best feature; it was something to bestow on the select.

She painstakingly sharpened her lipliner, careful not to let the shavings fall anywhere but directly into the bin. Studiously ignoring the queue before her desk, she raised the pencil to her lips, her breath fogging the mirror ever so slightly, and touched the tip to the corner of her mouth.

As she did, a figure careened around the corner and slammed into her desk with such force that a red mark appeared on her face connecting her mouth with her ear. "Roland _Weasley_," she screeched, wiping off the offending makeup and wagging a finger at him.

"Er, it's Ronald--"

"What in the name of Derwent are you doing, running in a hospital?" She was seething, and a slight hissing came from her with each intake of breath as though she were a kettle on the boil. "There are _sick people_ here."

"Yes, I--"

"And they deserve to be treated with--" The rest of her tirade was covered by the shouting of two muddy Quidditch players who burst into the room, scattering the crowd like You-Know-Who had entered the building. 

The one in the Wimbourne Wasps uniform hoisted the smaller man (in navy blue Puddlemere United robes) onto his shoulder. "D'ya see 'im, Jim?"

"There!" Jim shouted as the crowd parted. "Right there behind that fellow with the banana for a nose." There was a scuffle as the two men plowed through the patients, punctuated by cries of 'No, he went that way,' 'It's a plantain, you fool,' and simply 'Ouch!'

The crowd thinned as a part of the mass followed the chase. Muriel decided that a sense of order was necessary. "All right, queue up." She clapped her hands. Handclapping, snapping her fingers, and clearing her throat always worked when she wanted to attract attention. "You first," she said, pointing one pudgy finger at an old man who was threatening the first person in line (an equally old woman wearing a pinstriped suit under a slip) with his cane. "What's your--er, how may I direct you?"

"It's me wife," he said in the strident tones of one who needs an ear trumpet. "I told 'er if she didn't get that wand of 'ers fixed, it'd backfire--she's kept it all this time, not Gryffindor enough to get a new one--and sure enough, I rolled over it in me sleep and it backfired." The old man's hand shook as he fumbled with his belt. "Lost a buttock, I did. See?"

Muriel leaned back slightly. "Yes, I see. One instead of two. Down the hall and to your left, but you'd best pull your trousers back up if you don't want to trip. Next?"

***

Ron slammed open the door to the roof of St. Mungo's, gasping for breath. He'd run the whole way up from the ground floor, and he couldn't tell if the Quidditch twins were still after him; the pounding of his pulse was too loud. "Should've... ah... kept... huh... huh... huh... in better shape."

He stumbled over to the edge, bracing his arms on the low wall that ran around. If this continued, he wouldn't need to train for Cannons tryouts next year. For a moment, he indulged in the fantasy. Orange--no, ginger-colored robes, double C's emblazoned under the shooting cannonball. "Arg," he said to himself, chuckling softly. He'd be a pirate and a Quidditch player all in one. If only he could figure out how X marked the spot, he'd be rich, too.

A soft mist began to fall, slicking the surfaces and leaving a silvery sheen over Ron's robes. If he stayed out long enough, he'd not only be missed, he'd be soaked right through. And if he _was_ missed, it would be a sure thing that he'd be working late tonight to make up for it, and tonight was one night that he really, really didn't want to spend at St. Mungo's. With a sigh, he straightened his hair and took a final look over the side of the Purge and Dowse Ltd. building.

Before he could turn around, a loud bang startled him. He didn't have to look to know that Mr. Wimbourne and Puddlemere Jim had figured out the Unlocking Charm to get out onto the roof.

Or, rather, Ron realized that the banging sound was the door swinging far past where anyone might have opened it because he'd forgotten to put the Locking Charm on. He groaned, planting his face firmly in his palm.

"Oi! Peabrain! Don't move," Mr. Wimbourne commanded. 

Ron turned around slowly, holding his hands up. "Hey, you don't want to do this." He looked over his shoulder at the drop to the ground and swallowed hard. "And _I_ don't want to do this."

"You dirty, rotten..." Jim began (the rest of the words, which would certainly have made Hermione gasp, only made Ron duck to one side to avoid Mr. Wimbourne's ferocious bear hug). "I'm going to make you pay."

"I know you have insurance," Ron retorted as he stumbled back from Jim's impending uppercut. "All the League players do. It's in your contract. So, if you submit a claim with the proper paperwork, you won't have to worry about who will be paying for the procedures you had today."

Puddlemere Jim and Mr. Wimbourne lowered their fists and gaped at one another. Ron felt his stomach return to its proper place and began to relax a little. Yes, his experience as a Hogwarts prefect had improved his people skills. He could diffuse even the hottest argument with cool logic.

Jim and Wimbourne rounded on him. "So, you must be a spy. What team are you with? How much are they paying you?" Wimbourne grabbed a handful of Ron's robes, pulling them uncomfortably tight around the collar. "Well?" He shook Ron slightly.

"Eep." Ron grasped Wimbourne's arm as his feet were lifted off the ground and he was dangled over the side of the building. "Not-spy," he managed.

"Who's your team?" Jim bellowed.

Ron tried to draw breath. It might be his last one, but he was determined to have it. "Ca..." he wheezed. "Cannons."

"Liar!" Jim's face turned a violent shade of purple. "Nobody's team is the Cannons!"

Ron kicked as hard as he could and managed to connect with something like Jim's knee, only a little higher and to the left. Jim howled and bent over, clutching himself. "What'd you do that for?"

"Cannons," Ron gasped again.

Jim eyed Ron warily. "Reckon he might be telling the truth?"

Wimbourne studied Ron a moment before grunting. A second later, Ron was carried to the center of the flat roof and into the circle that was painted there. With a tenderness in direct contrast to the brute strength he had used to throttle Ron, Wimbourne set him down gently, almost as if her were made of glass.

"Er, sorry, then," Jim said.

Wimbourne nodded. "It wouldn't be right to pick on someone so..." He looked to his partner for help.

"Mental," Jim stated bluntly, shaking his head. "The Cannons, I ask you. Unbelievable."

Half of Ron wanted to melt in shame. Half of Ron wanted to punch the closest Quidditch player. Half of Ron wanted to punch the one a little farther away. But since he was not one and one-half persons, he settled for asking, "What have you got against the Cannons?"

"About a hundred years on top," Jim replied, and then laughed until Wimbourne's frown caused him to giggle behind his hand instead.

"If you're ever ready to support a real team, you know where to go," Wimbourne said. "The Wimbourne Wasps will be waiting. Hey, that has a nice sort of ring to it."

"Not like our team's song does."

__

Oh, good, Ron thought. _Let them kill each other again, oh please oh please oh please. _Now that his arch-nemeses of the day were absorbed in each other, he took the opportunity to step back a bit so as to be out of range of their fists.

A loud _crack_ echoed across the rooftop.

Where two men had been, there was now one. One man with three heads and far too many limbs. "I didn't think to warn you about standing on our Apparition point. Healer Smethwyck, good to see you. Meet Jim, and, er, a Puddlemere player."

***

__

"Susan," Neville whispered in her ear. She snuggled closer to him. He felt like nothing in her arms, a ghost, a memory. "Susan."

"Wake up, Susan." She opened her eyes. Neville wasn't talking to her. Ron was. "Smethwyck's downstairs. He'll be up soon enough, and you probably don't want to be caught sleeping on the job."

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Susan sat up and looked at her watch. "Thanks. Not a good idea, even if I was off for the last two hours."

Ron nodded. "I'm off in ten minutes, but I have the feeling that I'd be in trouble if I were caught sleeping. Unless I'd been admitted."

"You're off?" Susan asked. "Do you want to run upstairs and get something to eat?"

"Can't. Got to go."

"Ooh, a date?" Susan straightened her shirt and retied her shoes to cover her disappointment. "Who's the lucky woman?"

Ron blushed. "I'm just meeting Hermione and Harry for a drink. It's nothing."

"Have fun, then," Susan called after him as he hurried out. In no hurry herself--she had no one waiting--she headed home to cook a lonely supper for one.

***

  
Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. New version of chapter one 9/16/03. 


	2. Second Chances

Author's note: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. Chapter one was extended quite a bit; you may wish to check it out again just in case. Thanks for reading. 

Chapter Two: Second Chances

Ron Apparated inside _Le_, adjusting his tie and running a hand over his still-damp hair. He stepped off the marble Apparation platform self-consciously. If this wasn't Hermione's favorite restaurant, he wouldn't be caught dead eating here, he decided. From the obnoxious rose and gilt wallpaper to the deep red pile carpet and the lace curtains, the place reeked of cupids and sentimentality. And French food, but that wasn't the end of the world. Food was food.

The _maitre d' _eyed Ron suspiciously. Ron took a deep breath. They'd been through this before, so he decided to meet the train head on. "Yes, I'll need to borrow a jacket."

"And you are..." The _maitre d' _trailed off delicately, one eyebrow raised over a sneer.

"Here to meet Harry Potter." He paused for a moment, wondering why the next part was always so hard. "And Hermione Krum."

As soon as Harry's name was past Ron's lips, a waiter had snapped to attention and gone for a dinner jacket. Ron had long ceased to care about the whispers that followed whenever Harry was mentioned. He just wanted this part over with; he just wanted things to be back the way they used to be. Simple.

"It seems we only have something in maroon, Mr. Weasley." The _maitre d' _held the jacket out so Ron could slip it on. "It will go rather nicely with our scheme, don't you think? You will seem to be a part of the furniture." Ron growled under his breath as he topped off his forest green shirt and tie with the purplish suit jacket. Snotty man did know his name. Knew he didn't own a jacket. Probably picked the thing out for him specially. Just see if he left a tip this time. "Right this way."

Harry hadn't arrived yet. "Hermione?" Ron said quietly as he took the chair next to hers. She was staring blankly at her napkin, eyes shining. In the month since she'd come back from Bulgaria, she'd gained some weight. Ron thought it all for the better. Her face was rounded and her robes looked a lot better on. "Hermione?"

When Ron touched her arm, Hermione shook her head a little and looked up. "I was about to give up," she said, her voice shaking a little. "I should have _known_ you two would be late. And what is that you're wearing?" She tapped his sleeve with her wand. "_Turn black_. There, isn't that better?"

"Much," Ron replied, picking a bit of lint off his newly fashionable sleeve. "I'm not late. I'm early. I thought this was just drinks until I got your owl. And weren't we meeting at eight?"

"Seven-thirty. It's all right. I've been people-watching."

Ron wasn't inclined to believe that her napkin was a person, and was about to tell her so, but her hand caught his eye. A pale stripe wound around her ring finger. "I don't mean to be..." Ron searched his brain for the word Ginny had told him to use whenever he was in this sort of situation. "...Incense. No, insensitive," he said, stumbling over the words. "But--"

"Harry," Hermione exclaimed suddenly. "You're here. Now we can order." She signaled the waiter as Harry slid into the seat opposite them and then began to chat animatedly about the weather, even though neither man responded with more than the occasional 'hm' or 'uh-huh.'

While Hermione and Harry ordered, Ron tried to figure out the menu. It was written entirely in French, and Ron didn't like anything French unless it was called Delacour. He double-checked, but nothing by that name was on the menu tonight. Last time Hermione had ordered for him. "I'll have the iscairgit," he decided at last.

"The _escargot_ is an excellent choice, _monsieur_. May I recommend a wine?"

"No, I'd like a butterbeer." Ron ignored the waiter's frown and handed back his menu. "What?"

Harry was grinning openly. And Hermione...Hermione was frowning at Harry, but her lips were shaking. Just a little. "What?" he said again.

"You know, Ron, _escargot_ are--"

"Quite good," Hermione cut in. Her eyes were crinkling up around the corners. If _escargot_ could make Hermione smile for the first time in a month, he'd eat them by the plateful and gladly.

***

Ron eyed Harry's plate. Some sort of bird in wine sauce with fungus, from the look of it. Hermione--well, whatever she had ordered must have been good, because it was gone. His dinner, on the other hand...

"How is it?" Hermione asked.

"Choowy." Ron swallowed a lump. "Want a bit?"

"Thanks." Hermione speared a forkful. "And you, Harry. You haven't eaten a bite."

Ron figured this was probably true; Harry's plate had all the hallmarks of a dinner pushed to and fro to cover up the fact that it hadn't been eaten. He hadn't even bothered to cut up the thing.

"You have to eat, mate. Want some of this?" 

Harry turned slightly green. "Erm, no. Thanks, Ron."

Ron stopped mid-bite. "Awright. What'm I eetin'?"

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. In the end, it was Hermione who broke the news. "Snails. And they're a bit undercooked."

Ron spit the mouthful out so hard that he knocked over his water glass. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Well, you just kept _eating_ it." Hermione's lips twisted as she drew her wand and dried off the tablecloth. "And that was disgusting, Ron."

Ron scrubbed at his lips with a napkin. "No worse than eating snails. Or watching someone eat snails. Honestly, how could you?" His face softened as he realized she was amused by the whole thing. "Maybe pudding will make up for it. What was that stuff we had last time? Chocolate catto?"

"_Gateau_," Hermione supplied. "I think I'll have some as well. Harry?" she asked, signaling the waiter.

Harry dropped his fork onto the table. "Nah. I'm just not hungry. And, I...I'm just very tired. Can we get together another time?"

"Of course, Harry. Shall I owl you, or--"

Harry shook his head. "I'll come by. We'll see each other soon." He pressed a small pouch of Galleons into Ron's hand. "For dinner. And," he said, managing a half-smile, "make sure Hermione gets home all right."

Ron and Hermione watched Harry walk out, his shoulders drooping. 

***

"...So, I'm hoping that I'll be able to do some freelance work for _Arithmancy Unlimited_, though I do have some misgivings about their privacy policy. I mean, I could be giving some maniac the exact equation they need to break the wards around Hogwarts or blow up Gringotts or something worse. On the other hand, I could work when I felt like it, or when I wanted to, or needed to, and I wouldn't have to worry about someone non-magical finding out what I was doing, because it wouldn't be so obvious as working with potions or--" Hermione finally paused to draw breath. "And you never know, something might open up at Hogwarts, only it might be the Defense position, and I'm not quite that foolish, I don't think, and it would be so far away from you and Harry, and here we are." 

Hermione propped her takeaway box on one arm while she fumbled for her wand--she'd bribed the waiter to wrap up a cheesecake--and tapped the door of her flat with her wand, muttering the Unlocking Charms.

Ron wrinkled his nose. The hallway smelled like old cabbage and cats. He knew that the old saying was true: there were cheap places to live in Fine Alley, but when you could manage it, you moved out and said _finally_.

The door opened with a soft _click_ and Hermione stopped chattering long enough to push it open. Ron mustered up his nerve, even though a bit of his brain was using Ginny's voice and chanting _insensitive, insensitive, insensitive._

"Invite me in for tea." Ginny's voice screamed _you're supposed to at least make it a question _but he ignored it. "Tea and cheesecake."

Hermione looked at him warily for a moment. "All right. If you'll make the tea I'll get some plates." She led the way through to the tiny kitchen.

Ron paused in the doorway. It hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been here, almost a week ago. A sofa and table across from the fire competed for space with a writing desk, which was overflowing with books. Through a narrow doorway another table, this one with two ladder-back chairs, was crammed into the corner next to the refrigerator and across from the stove. Beyond the kitchen--not more than a wide hallway, really--another door led to a bedroom. Ron hadn't been in there, but he imagined it as spartan as the rest.

A search of the cupboards yielded teacups and tea. "Hermione, where's the kettle?"

"Oh." Hermione looked flustered and set down the knife she'd been using to slice the cheesecake. "Er, I sold it."

"What?" Ron shook his head. "Why?"

"Well, it was--was something I didn't want to keep around anymore. And I wanted a new one."

"I think I can make the tea anyway." Ron turned the tap for hot water, thankful that he had something to do to hide his confusion. The kettle had been a present from Krum. Ron himself had made tea with it so many times that he'd almost forgotten.

He stirred the water in the cups with his wand, each in turn, muttering spells to boil it. As he spoke, he closed his eyes, remembering the day Hermione had received the kettle.

They'd been in the library at Hogwarts. It was the beginning of the third year after they should have been out, free, adults. But Dumbledore wouldn't let them out of the castle. Voldemort wanted Harry, and because he wanted Harry, all three of them were trapped. It was kill or be killed, and the problem was that no one knew for sure if the first option was even possible. 

So they'd stayed, suspended, given extra lessons by the professors, spending hours researching advanced spells and defenses; they were locked away like children although they had had to grow up so quickly. Yet, it had been oddly comforting. Harry had his mood swings, and Hermione had her nagging. _See here, Ron, you could be a Healer if you'd just take a few of your N.E.W.T.s over, and there's no reason you can't, since you're here anyway. I'm sure that if you revise properly and ask the board very nicely, they won't mind at all...._

Of course, Hermione had her letters to Krum. And from Krum. And she never shared. But Ron hadn't really cared; he'd had Hermione in the flesh.

She hadn't been pleased with him because he'd forgotten her birthday. The days ran together, always the same, and he had stopped paying attention to the calendar. Harry had given her some dusty old book and Ron had given her his scone, hiding it under the table so Madam Pince wouldn't see. Then, a magnificent pair of eagle owls had flown in, carrying the package between them. Hermione had barely taken off the twine and paper, barely taken the thing out, when the world exploded.

The walls had been breached. The air was thick with smoke and bright blasts of light ricocheted off the shelves, sending books flying. They had run, Hermione clocking a Death Eater with the heavy kettle by accident. Together they reached the Forbidden Forest. Some of the Death Eaters were picked off by acromantula as they followed blindly, some were attacked by centaurs, and at least one was carried off by Grawp.

But more came. They weren't ready for them. So when Dumbledore had appeared, with his own kettle in hand, Hermione and Ron had pushed Harry forward and taken hold at the same time.

For the next year, they were always on the move. If it was Tuesday, it meant a new Portkey. They saw Tuscany, Beijing, and Cartegena through windows. The best place had been a little cove on a deserted island where they had ventured out to go swimming. The only constant was that terrible kettle, painted to look like a rooster. Home is where you hang your kettle, they'd joked, even after it grew stale.

When Harry came up with a solution rather suddenly, they took the kettle home with them to the Burrow. Ron was making tea--with his mother's kettle, for a change--when one of Krum's eagle owls had shown up with a letter that silenced Hermione and had her Apparating out of the house not twenty minutes later. Harry and Ron wrote her and received letters back, evasive and boring and unmistakably Hermione, and their questions went unanswered. 

Harry, as always, had a world to save and Ron, who could do little more then offer moral support, grew tired of Weasley sympathy and took the first job he found. Once in London and at work at St. Mungo's, it was not so trying. Or maybe it was, but there was no time to think about it.

The headline in the _Daily Prophet_'s sport section had read: _Former Seeker for Bulgaria Marries_. There had been no picture, only a notice that Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum had married at his parents' home. For six months, Ron pretended that he had never read it. Then came the second notice, the one on the last page that said Krum had died following an extended illness. Ron wanted to feel sad, but all he felt was...nothing. 

A few weeks later, he'd had an owl from Hermione, and he and Harry had collected her at Heathrow. Too tired to Apparate, she'd said. She'd been thin and tense, and managed a little small talk before checking herself into The Leaky Cauldron.

"Ron. _Ron_. You've practically boiled them dry." Hermione tugged at his sleeve and pulled the cups out of his reach, bringing him back to the present. "I don't have any milk, but I've got some sugar here somewhere."

"It's all right." Ron carried the cups into the other room. "Come on, let's sit here on the sofa."

Hermione frowned at this, but brought their dessert with her. "I suppose this reminds you of the time in Prague when we didn't have a table to eat on."

"I'd forgotten that." Ron took a bite. "This isn't bad, but the chocolate stuff is better. Hey, slow down. You'll make yourself sick."

Hermione was half done with her portion already. "You're suddenly the expert on table manners?"

Ron slammed his plate down on the end table, fuming. He wanted to kick himself, to grab his foot and keep it out of his mouth, but he knew it was already too late. "Where's your ring?"

She swallowed carefully and set her plate aside. "I took it off," she answered coolly. 

"So Krum was worth leaving me and Harry behind for, but not worth remembering for, oh, a decent length of time?" Ron couldn't believe what was coming out of his own mouth; what was it to him if she had only been in it for the money...money that there was no current evidence of, but there had to be some reason why she'd gone off and married the git.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Shut up. Shut your mouth. You didn't need me anymore. A few more weeks and you both would have been bored silly."

Ron was thrown by her sudden tears and her response, but he continued. "So Krum needed you more than Harry did? Krum was more important to you than Harry was?" _Than I was?_ "One letter and you knew?"

"It's not that simple." Hermione stood up and walked to the window. "Viktor was very ill. He needed me. Harry had got rid of Voldemort, you were thinking about going out for the Cannons. _I didn't have anything left to do._"

"You don't really believe that." Ron was dumbfounded. "You think we wanted you around all those years because we needed your brain? Because we wanted the answers to our homework? What are we to you? Some sort of project?"

Hermione didn't answer.

"You're a fool, Hermione." Ron stood up. "A fool to think any of that is true. When you've got your head on straight again..." He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Don't you see?" she said, finally. "I didn't have any purpose. I had to do something."

"You want purpose? You-Know...Vol--Vold--" Ron put his hands over his mouth.

"Voldemort. You can say it now, you know," she said crossly. "You don't have to look ill when someone says it, either--are you all right?"

"Mouth tastes funny," he mumbled from behind his hand. "Two, two of you." Ron bent double, his hands moving from his mouth to his stomach. "Going to be--sick."

Hermione put a hand to his forehead. "You're very clammy, and sweaty and cold. Maybe you had too much at dinner?" The question was barely out of her mouth when a number of snails splattered onto her shoes. "A simple 'yes' would have been sufficient, Ronald. _Scourgify._ Oh, not again." She pointed her wand at the floor, cleaning up the mess. "Ron? Ron!"

Ron passed out in a puddle of--well, Hermione didn't want to inspect it too closely. "He must be allergic," she said out loud. With a muttered _Mobilicorpus_ she lifted him toward the tiny fire that was connected to the Floo Network on a pay-per-use basis. "Money, money, need some, hurry." She patted Ron's suit, extracting the pouch of Galleons from the pocket of his trousers gingerly. After throwing a handful of Floo powder into the hearth she dropped two Galleons into the flames, overestimating the fee just in case. 

"St. Mungo's," she shouted, pushing Ron into the fire ahead of her. 

The fire spun them around and spit them out. Hermione picked herself up and looked around. They were still in her flat. She stamped a foot in frustration and started over. The second time, she called out "nine, nine, nine" before going into the flames, Ron in her arms. The world spun again, and a little snail vomit dribbled down her back, and her face was going to have a mark from being pressed into the buttons on Ron's jacket.

This time, when it all stopped, she was on the floor, crushed by Ron's dead weight. But the floor was tiled and cool and a Healer rushed toward her. "Second time's a charm," she said to herself, breathing a sigh of relief.

***


	3. Triage

Chapter Three: Triage

Susan pressed two fingers to the inside of Ron's wrist, watching the second hand sweep around her watch. "Hey," she said softly as his eyelids fluttered open.

"Hey," he whispered back, his voice raspy. "Can I have a some water?"

"Promise me it will stay inside, and yes, you may." She reached for a pitcher on the bedside table and poured a cupful. "Lean forward, so I can put another pillow behind you. Don't want you getting it down your front."

Ron sipped the water thoughtfully as Susan checked over his chart. "So how did I get here, then?"

Susan grinned. "Well, I hear that you were shuttled from ward to ward all night long. After all, it was probably a case of food poisoning, not something that needed magical attention. I think they're still cleaning the snails up. How many of those things did you eat, anyway? In the end, since we stopped it with half a Puking Pastille from Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, we decided to blame the incident on your brothers slipping you something, and since your brothers could be classified as beasts, you ended up in Creature-Induced Injuries. All for insurance and billing purposes, of course."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Still, I'd better be out of here before Smethwyck finds out, right?"

"Probably." Susan's lips straightened into a grim line. "Go home and go to bed. You need to drink plenty of fluids and get some rest. I haven't heard of anything quite so disgusting in a while."

"Oh, I've had worse," Ron said sagely. "Slugs."  


Susan rolled her eyes. "I don't want to know. Your clothes are still in the laundry, but I'll see you get some scrubs. Unless you'd rather Floo home in that. It'll be a windy ride, but I think you'd better not Apparate until you're feeling better," she finished, gesturing to Ron's hospital gown.

Ron turned a shade of coral as he realized that someone on the staff must have seen a great deal of him since he didn't remember dressing himself in the open-back gown. It was one thing to change the clothes of a patient, but having your own changed--Ron shuddered slightly and leaned back into the pillows, swallowing the last of the water.

Susan hadn't closed the curtains completely when she left, and Ron could see a patch of gray sky through the window. He could also see one sensibly-shod foot dangling over the edge of a chair. Ron grabbed the bedrail and pulled himself to the edge of the mattress so he could brush the curtain aside.

Hermione was curled awkwardly in her seat. She looked sure to have a cramp in her neck when she woke up. Ron watched her sleep, trying to remember when she'd last been so quiet. Her mouth was slack and a little, frowning vee wrinkled her forehead between her eyebrows. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her cheeks had the rosy flush of an overtired child.

Goyle yanked open the curtain on the other side, dumping an armload of pale green robes onto the end of the bed. His gaze settled on Ron, then Hermione, then Ron again. "You want me to wake her?"

"No." Ron brushed his blankets aside and shakily got to his feet. Goyle was standing a little too close for comfort and was still staring at Hermione. "Go on," he whispered, pushing Goyle's mass out of the way and flicking the curtain closed so that he could dress in private. Twice he had to sit down and wait for a wave of leftover nausea to pass, but he managed to cover all the important bits before facing the inevitable.

When he drew back the curtain she was still there, looking just as uncomfortable as before. Ron sighed and kneeled down next to her, putting a hand on her arm. "Hermione," he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered and she mumbled, "No, you have to help him...please, I don't know what's wrong...he's sick again..."

__

Krum, as usual, he thought morosely. Not wanting to startle her, Ron threaded his fingers through hers and gently shook her hand. "Wake up."

Hermione's eyes opened and she blinked owlishly. "Ron?" She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "I was"--she yawned--"so worried."

"Worried that I would get well and that you'd have no 'purpose'?" Ron asked in spite of himself. As soon as Hermione drew back, her face shuttered and pale, he wished he could take it back. But a part of him didn't want to _have_ to take it back; there was nothing in the statement that was a lie.

"I have to go," she said, getting to her feet with obvious discomfort. Ron reached to help her up, but found that he didn't want to release her arm. "Let me go." She lowered her voice. "Please."

"We need to have this out, Hermione."

"Yes, but _not here_."

"Right." Ron's knees shook and he freed Hermione from his grasp to lean--he hoped casually--against the bed. "You'll need time to do your research and prepare your arguments about why I'm not good enough the way I am."

Ignoring her cry of protest, Ron pushed himself up and walked downstairs, rubber-legged, to the Floo entrance.

***

"Sooooosan." Muriel Hopkirk waved a file folder over her head as if she were flagging down a taxi rather than a passing Healer. "You're going to need this. Smethwyck will want to see it, remember."

"What for?" Susan asked absently as she stopped to flip through the stack of charts waiting on the receptionist's desk. "Is there anyone here that needs to come up to Creatures?"

"Well," Muriel said slowly, "there might be...but your review is in an hour and I checked, of course, to see if you'd completed your report. It's a good portion of the review, you know, dear." A patronizing smile squirmed its way across her face. "Don't tell me you haven't been preparing?"

Susan stared at Muriel blankly. "I'm being evaluated? Again? Why wasn't I informed?"

Muriel lifted one finger that ended in a red-polished nail toward the board where the names of St. Mungo's staff members were listed, followed by their location. As Susan looked, Ron's status faded from 'Creature-Induced Injuries' and was replaced with 'off duty.' Her own name was listed as 'checking entrance for CI patients.'

"I don't see anything," she said, rather crossly.

Muriel sighed, rolling her eyes. She placed her patent-leather pumps firmly on the floor and rolled herself over the black and white checkered tiles until she was within arm's reach of the board. "There," she said, tapping a line of print at the bottom so tiny that Susan had to squint to be sure it was not simply a stray mark. "Nine o'clock. It's been up all week. I'm sure you'll want to be on time, so you'd better hurry." She rolled back to her desk and pulled a set of charts out of a drawer. "Here's a pair that came in not ten minutes ago."

Fuming, Susan snatched the charts out of Muriel's hands and skimmed through the pages. _This was deliberate, _she thought to herself. Before she could get good and angry, a whimper from the chairs distracted her.

A man sat balancing two small children on his lap. "It will be all right, love. They'll come for us soon," he whispered to the girl. To the boy, he said, "Stiff upper lip. After all, it should be easy!"

"What happened here?" Susan knelt before the group. Each of the children was covered in hundreds of slender spines. A tear slid down the boy's cheek, bouncing between them and, oddly enough, reminding Susan of the time she'd stumbled into a pachinko parlor during a trip to Knockturn Alley for supplies. She lifted a hand and touched a finger to the girl's face. It was a mass of hives where the spines were embedded in her flesh. 

"It's my fault, I'm afraid." Susan looked at the children's--father? It was hard to see any resemblance between the puffy-faced children and the chiseled features of the older man. "We were camping, and they wandered off. Ran into a patch of Horklumps."

__

Wandered off. Unsupervised while their parents drank up the Ogden's Old, more likely. "Well, we'll need to get these out right away before infection sets in." Susan considered her options. There wasn't enough icerplant upstairs for the both of them, and there wasn't likely to be more until the medicines were restocked. "This way."

Susan's heels clacked sternly against the floor as she led them out of the waiting area, down the hallway opposite Artifact Accidents, and around a corner. On one side was the Floo entrance. A half-dozen Healers waited to sort and stabilize incoming patients or to direct them to the proper floor. Sometimes, an owl would swoop in with an urgent note and a Healer would run up to the roof to Apparate or jump headfirst into the fire in response. The Floo entrance Healers--the emergency crew--were known for being slightly insane. Longer than normally long hours, split second decisions, and life-or-death procedures were their specialty. _There but for the grace of Smethwyck go I_, Susan thought, as she ushered her patients into one of the small rooms across the hall.

"Off with your things. The spines didn't go through your clothes, did they?" When the children shook their heads, Susan handed them each a hospital gown. "I'll help you," she said, motioning for the girl to come closer, "and you boys go behind the curtain until we call."

A minute later the children sat side by side on the crinkly paper that covered the examination table. "Who's first?"

The boy puffed out his chest, and his bristles on his face wiggled as he spoke. "Mackenzie can go first. I don't feel a thing."

"All right. Now," she said, seating herself before Mackenzie and pulling a tray of instruments close, "does Mackenzie have any allergies, Mr.--"

"Warcastle. Ajax Warcastle. No, not that I know of." Warcastle smiled hesitantly at his daughter. "I'm sure it won't hurt a bit, lass."

Susan put on a grim smile. In the three years she'd worked at St. Mungo's, she'd only had a handful of pediatric cases. It _was_ going to hurt. "No more than it has to." She squirted a little icerplant gel onto a cotton swab and began to dab at the hives. "This will numb your skin a little, and then I'll have to pull out the spines one by one. If it starts to hurt, tell me and we'll put on more gel."

Mackenzie gasped when Susan picked up the sharp pair of tweezers. "It will be all right," Susan whispered. "Just hold still."

Thirty minutes later, she pulled the last spine out. Blood tricked from scores of tiny lesions, but a flick of Susan's wand had the cuts sealing themselves. "Promise me you won't scratch. It's going to itch as it heals, and when it does, I want you to put this on it," she finished, handing Mackenzie a tube of aloe ointment. She tilted her head, inspecting her handiwork. Mackenzie's eyes were red from crying and her nut-colored curls were escaping from her pigtails. However, her skin, although currently rosy and irritated, looked like it would heal without scarring.

"Michael next," Mackenzie said. "Oh, don't worry. Papa was right. You won't feel a thing." She slid off the table and climbed into her father's lap, snickering behind her hand as her brother paled. 

Susan's gaze flicked to the girl and her father. She could see where Mackenzie got her curls, though Warcastle's eyes were a piercing blue where Mackenzie's, and Michael's, were warm brown. It wasn't until Warcastle cleared his throat that she realized she was staring. Her cheeks were warm as she focused her attention on Michael.

Mackenzie chattered away, much improved, as Susan painstakingly plucked the spines from Michael's skin. "We weren't supposed to go round the bend, Papa, we knew that, but we were chasing this toad, and he kept jumping a little more every time."

__

Sounds like Trevor, Susan thought, tuning out Mackenzie's voice. _I wonder where he is. If Neville's safe. If we'll have a family as beautiful as the Warcastles. The moment he gets back here were starting one, married or not..._

"That's the last of them." Susan healed Michael's wounds and ruffled his hair. "Quite an upper lip, if I do say so myself." 

Michael grinned. He was missing both his front teeth. "Papa theth that ith what all gentlemen thould have." 

The elder Warcastle gentleman let out a guffaw and set his daughter on the floor. "Thank you very much, Healer"--he looked at her badge--"Bones." He stood up, gathering the children close. 

Susan looked over his shoulder at the clock. Eight fifty-eight. Where had the time gone? She hurriedly jotted a few last words on the thick packet of paperwork. "These papers will need to go to the reception desk, completed and signed. And you'll want to bring the children back in a week so we can be sure there aren't any leftover bits underneath the surface."

"Will you see them?" 

She caught a whiff of his aftershave and felt immediately guilty when her heartbeat quickened. _Neville has nice eyes too, remember. _"That all depends. I can't say for certain. I'm very sorry, I have to dash. Perhaps I can just owl your wife with a reminder?"

Warcastle and the children grew quiet. "That won't be necessary. Thank you again, Healer Bones." Taking a child in each hand, he crossed the hall to the Floo hub.

Susan dithered for a second. _Go after them and tell them that their underthings are showing, or meet Smethwyck?_ The folder in her hand began to cuckooing like her least favorite kind of clock, making the decision for her. She looked at the ceiling. There was no way she could make it there in time, no matter how fast she ran, but Apparating through the wards was going to be tricky....

__

Crack! Susan sprinted past the tearoom and hospital shop. She skidded to a halt just inside the doors which read 'Hippocrates Smethwyck, Chief of Staff' as the minute hand on her watch slid over to read three past the hour.

Smethwyck's secretary, a white-haired witch who wore tinted glasses on a gold chain, robes with fluffy bows that tied at the neck, and too much rouge, scribbled away determinedly at her correspondence. Apparently, she did not hear Susan's file, which grew noisier by the second. Finally, she peered over her glasses. "Do you have an appointment to see the chief of staff?"

Susan held up her folder. "Will this do?" She gave the secretary her sweetest smile.

The secretary gave her a dubious look. "It is generally expected that you will arrive before your folder goes off. The chief's time is quite valuable." She pulled a book across the blotter, running one finger down the page. "Susan Bones, nine o'clock. It appears to be--let me see--five after. Let me see if the chief will still consent to see you."

Turning to a brightly plumed bird on a stand behind her, the secretary raised her voice. "Susan Bones here to see you, sir." 

The parrot flew through the inner door, which had been left ajar. Susan heard it repeat the secretary's message with a squawk, then Smethwyck's oily response: "Send her in, please."

The bird returned. "Send her in, please, bwaaaak, send her in, please, cracker?"

"You may go in now, Miss Bones." The secretary returned to her work with a dismissive wave.

Susan walked across the deep pile carpet, biting the insides of her cheeks. If she wasn't careful, she'd say what she really thought, and then where would she be? Out on the street without a decent reference. Out on the street without six months experience in any special area. Out on the street without Neville.

She reached for the brass doorknob and took a deep breath. _I should have known this was coming. Every five months, like clockwork. I was so worried about Neville, I forgot about it entirely._

"Bwaaaaaak, what are you waiting for? Fashionably late, fashionably late, he'll have your head on a plate."

Susan glared at the parrot and walked into Smethwyck's office, closing the door tightly behind her. Whatever was said in here would be between the two of them. No need for nosy secretaries, or nosy parrots, to hear a word of it.

The chief of staff bent close over his notes, and did not look up as she entered. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Smethwyck scared her. He was over six feet tall and skeletally thin. Something in his deliberate movements always made her think of spiders. He was completely bald and his spectacles reflected any light, so that she could never quite see his eyes.

"Please be seated."

Susan lowered herself carefully into one of the chairs opposite Smethwyck's desk. It wouldn't do for her to collapse into the chair like she wanted to. If she looked weak, then her arguments would be weak.

"Your folder please."

Smethwyck paged through the contents, his thin eyebrows raised over the tops of his lenses. When he got to the pages that Susan knew would be at the end, the pages where she should have detailed her accomplishments and successes with Creature-Induced Injuries patients, he very deliberately dropped them, one by one, into the bin beside his desk.

"I believe that it is time we discussed your future at St. Mungo's, Susan."

  
********************  
Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. No snails were harmed in the making of this chapter. 


	4. Quarter After Nine

Chapter Four: Quarter After Nine

Smethwyck tilted his head, his glasses reflecting the dim light that filtered through the blinds. He flicked his thumb restlessly against the edge of her personnel file. "I see that you finished at the Healer's Academy with excellent marks. You completed your apprenticeship at St. Joan's, in Paris...another excellent institution. You've worked for us in every department for more than two years but you haven't yet received a specialist certificate. Why is that, Susan?"

Susan gritted her teeth. He knew why she hadn't. "I was first hired to replace Twilliger while she took maternity leave. She came back before the six months required for a certificate were up, and there were no other positions in the Artifact Accidents department at the time. So I was transferred to Bugs, to replace the Healer who was supposed to be replacing Grover during his sabbatical, but that wasn't a full six months, either." She held back an exasperated sigh. "Something similar has happened with every departmental transfer, and under St. Mungo's policy, I haven't had any seniority. However, I've been in Creature-Induced Injuries for five months and twelve days. Pye won't be back from vacation for the next three weeks, and so I expect to complete a certificate next month. Also, at this time, C-I is short a Healer, so when he returns there won't be any reason for personnel to reassign me."

"Of course not. Personnel doesn't make the staffing decisions," Smethwyck replied with deceptive blandness. "I do. It seems that you will, perhaps, complete your certificate. However, the last few weeks before Pye returns as Healer-in-Charge will be busy for you. We've hired a new Trainee Healer, and I expect you to make sure he is trained in hospital procedures and so on before Pye returns."

"But--" Susan heard a distant ringing, as if an alarm clock was sounding in the next room. "Then you'll be fully staffed again. Where will I go?"

Smethwyck's thin smile was both patronizing and sarcastic. "I'm sure we'll be able to come up with something."

__

Bastard. Rat. Rat bastard. Rat rat rat. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. She'd been scraping by without a specialist certificate, making do on her entry-level salary because every Knut had a pre-determined place to go on paydays. The substantial increase in pay, at long last, would be meaningless if she didn't have a job.

Maybe she should just cut her losses and walk out now. She could be out the door by nine-fifteen. There was no guarantee that she'd be able to tell the licensing board that she'd spent six months in Creature-Induced Injuries. Smethwyck could keep her until she was within sight of her goal, until she'd racked up five months and twenty-nine days of service, and send her home. She could be searching for a job in the meantime. She had good marks and good references from her teachers, the Healers at St. Joan's, and from the staff here. So what if she wouldn't get anything from Smethwyck? She was a _Hufflepuff_, dammit. She was in for the long haul. 

"In that case..." Susan stood up. There was nothing left to say. 

Before she could make her exit, though, Smethwyck's secretary burst through the door with a red envelope in her hand. She held it out as if it were a smelly sock. "It's terrible. Terrible!"

Smethwyck rolled his eyes. Well, Susan thought he might have rolled his eyes, but she couldn't see past the mirror-like lenses. "If it's those pranksters from Diagon Alley, we pay our bills quarterly. If it's the Burgers again, we're very sorry but we're simply not equipped to deal with their son's Billywig addiction. They should try Quebec Magical General. And if it's the Reynolds, they can complain all they want but it won't hold up in court and I'm not giving them a red Sickle."

"No," whispered the secretary. She flipped the Howler around so that he could see the swooping _M_ stamped onto the seal.

Smethwyck made a noise that Susan thought sounded exactly like the word _gulp_. "Oh. Well then. Who was scheduled for today?"

"No one." The secretary shook so hard that the chain on her glasses wobbled from side to side. "You haven't done the schedule for this week."

"Well, Pye's still out," Smethwyck replied shortly. "Who else?"

"Rockwell is out today, and Longbottom--"  


"Is out today as well," Susan put in quickly.

"So that leaves you, sir." 

"It's not something I enjoy." Smethwyck twirled his quill between his fingers irritably before throwing in down. "Susan, have I ever cleared you for Ministry duty?"

"Er, no--"

"I have now." He reached into his desk and pulled out a square card, stamping it and signing his name at the bottom. "If you hurry, you can be there at a quarter after."

***

Susan didn't manage to get out of the office before the Howler blew, so it was a relief to emerge from the visitor's lift and into the cool, quiet atmosphere of the Atrium level in the Ministry of Magic. She'd last been here to take her Apparating test, and had nearly been trampled by the crowd as witches and wizards streamed into the Ministry to start the workday. Today, there were only a few people crisscrossing the wide, polished wood floor, so she took a moment to admire the fountain and the portrait hanging over the largest of the gilt fireplaces.

It must have been painted just after the war ended, she realized. It had been more than two years, but the memory of the end and the days after was still fresh in her mind. She'd been coming down the steps outside Gringotts. There had been nothing special about that day, other than the trip to Gringotts withdraw the last of her funds to finance her upcoming trip to France. The sky was flat and gray. She had a few days before the final exam at the Healer's Academy, and then she'd be off for three months to do her apprenticeship. She was ready, and would be more than glad to be out of wizarding Britain. It wasn't safe anywhere in those days.

The screaming had started on the fourth step. _I always thought that You-Know-Who would be taller_, she'd thought to herself. _That he'd starting blasting people away the moment he appeared. _The crowd had parted, and she caught the flash of sunlight on glasses, and Voldemort had simply dissipated.

There had been shouting and ale and snogging in the streets, and a parade with confetti and parties for a week. Then, wizarding London had slept, for the first time in years, closing shop for a holiday. The portrait had likely been painted while she slept off too many rounds, and if the artist had been a feeling person at all, they'd have been too drunk to paint, in Susan's opinion.

Instead, the Muggle-style portrait was awe-inspiring. The colors were vivid, the likenesses true, and the subjects caught with a light in their eyes. It made Susan's eyes tear with pride as she viewed The Alliance: Albus Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, and, in the center, Minister of Magic and destroyer of Voldemort (not to mention her hero) Percy Weasley.

"Er, miss?" 

Susan turned toward the voice. A scruffy man at the security desk waved an arm, and she looked around. No one else was in the Atrium. "Yes?"

"Can I help you? We don't have a tour or anything, and I see that you're not wearing your visitor's badge." The guard gave her a dubious look. "I thought I saw you come down in the lift."

"Oh, I did," said Susan. "Last time I was here, I got a badge, but this time nothing happened. Maybe it's out of order?"

"Can't be," he replied, unappeased. "What's your business here?"

Mutely, Susan handed over the card that Smethwyck had given her. 

"Oh. _Oh._ Well then, your wand--give it here." He dropped it onto the wand registrar dish, waving a long golden rod in her direction. "We'll call that good, and you'd better hurry. Here's your wand again," he said, as a slip was printed from the registrar, "and hurry. Quickly, now."

"Hurry? Hurry where?" All Smethwyck had said was to report to the Ministry. Susan had been so anxious to be out of his presence that she hadn't questioned the instructions at all.

The guard's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You don't know? Well, maybe not, I never seen you before. I don't even know. It's hush-hush, see. But you'd better get to the Minister's office as fast as you can."

Susan nodded and jogged off in the direction he pointed, skidding to a halt at the lifts. She jabbed the button for level one, which was marked "Ministerial Suite." An achingly slow ride later, she was let off into a well-appointed hallway with many doors along each side. Susan didn't bother reading the brass nameplates that hung on the walls; it was clear enough that the ornately carved double doors at the far end marked her destination.

Apprehensively, Susan turned the knob and slipped through. The outer offices of the Minster of Magic boasted tall, narrow windows which allowed stripes of sunlight to mark the path from the door to a desk at the far end. A slender redhead looked up from her reading and motioned her closer.

"Er, hello." Arthur, Bill, and Charlie Weasley were often pictured together as members of Percy's cabinet, but she hadn't been aware that Ginny worked here as well. Susan's dim memories of Ginny playing Quidditch and cutting a half-serious swath through her year-mates didn't quite go with the prim, pale violet suit and the elegant, understated accessories and makeup. _Percy's influence? She looks the perfect secretary._

Ginny nodded and reached for the card Susan proffered. "Unfortunately, I don't think we have time to train you properly." Susan opened her mouth to reply that she was highly trained, thank you very much, but Ginny held up a hand and continued. "We'll just have you jump right in." Whipping out her wand, Ginny tapped Susan on the forehead, cheeks, and chin in rapid succession. 

"Wha?" Susan rubbed at her stinging cheek.

"No time. Really." Ginny opened one of several doors leading from the outer office. "In here. We usually start around eight, and the report is due by nine-thirty, so we're running behind schedule."

The hallway was short and narrow. Ginny closed the door and edged around Susan to the next door, only a few steps further. This one she closed behind herself without letting Susan through, and when she did the lights went out. 

Susan stepped backward, groping for the doorknob behind her. It was perfectly reasonable to want to see the hand in front of her face. The knob wouldn't turn and none of the Unlocking Charms Susan knew budged it one bit. She felt her way along the wall to the door Ginny had gone through, but had no more success.

"Ginny?" she called out, rattling the doorknob. With a sudden flash, one wall of the hallway opened, and Susan walked toward it. After stubbing her toe against the edge, she realized that it had only turned into a window.

The room on the other side was like no room Susan had ever seen. Woven mats were fitted exactly across the floor, and dark wood paneling alternated with what appeared to be parchment, or paper, as pale light glowed from without. A few exotic ornaments in shades of onyx, emerald, and scarlet adorned the walls.

And sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, eyes closed and back straight, was Harry Potter.

While she watched, Ginny moved from an unseen corner and into Susan's line of vision. Susan cleared her throat. "Excuse me--what am I to do?" 

Ginny didn't appear to hear her. She walked circles around Harry, scattering powders and lighting candles in the sconces. Harry didn't move either, but the air around him pulsed and shimmered gently.

At last Ginny brushed off her hands and looked around the room, satisfied. Drawing her wand, she approached Harry and pointed it between his eyes. "Wake up."

Harry's eyes snapped open. They were two red, glowing coals. Susan couldn't prevent a half-scream, but neither Harry not Ginny paid her any attention. Instead, Harry's face twisted into a grimace. "Ginny. Not again. What do you want?"

"You know what I want," she wheedled. "I want you to come out. Come out and play with me, Tom."

Susan looked from one to the other in confusion. She was sure Ginny used to have a crush on Harry in school, and that he was on friendly terms with Ron and the rest of her family. But who the hell was Tom?

Harry threw his head back and laughed a cold, high laugh that sent a shiver down Susan's spine. The muscles in her legs and back tensed; she was ready to run off in a flash. She'd find a way out of here. None of this was right.

"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Maybe I want something from you, you little bitch. You're not the kind, sweet girl I used to know. You think naughty thoughts. You're not so nice."

"You either," Ginny said stoically. "Come here."

Harry uncrossed his legs and splayed them out, leaning back to rest on his elbows. "I'm tired. You come here."

"I don't know why you keep trying."

Harry surveyed her from head to toe. His disgusted sneer gradually turned into a lecherous grin. "You either. I bet you're still wondering why handsome, brave, daring, _wonderful_ Harry Potter doesn't notice you. Oh, boo-hoo. Or have you moved on to some other worthy man? Perhaps you miss me more than you're willing to say. In case you were wondering, though, I imagine he doesn't like your spots. Come closer."

Ginny dropped out to her knees, lowering her head. "I imagine. Not my hair, either."

"No, not your hair," he said, sitting up. Harry was growing paler by the second, and the air around him seemed to twist and turn. "Not your face. Not your scrawny legs. Not your mind. I've never known anyone so dull as you. Harry, being a dull boy himself, needs someone more intelligent for balance. Someone like Minerva, or Bellatrix--" He broke off, confusion playing across his features. "I don't know where she is anymore."

"She's not here." Ginny sneaked a hand forward, holding it out as if she were testing the temperature near Harry. "I'm here. Come out and play, Tom."

Harry's attention snapped back to Ginny. "My rules. Come closer."

Ginny inched forward. "I'm closer."

"Closer. I can't see you from here."

She moved forward again, stopping just out of Harry's--_Tom's?_--reach.

"You're mine, aren't you, Ginny?"

"Yes, Lord Voldemort."

Susan let out the other half of her scream. It didn't make any sense. Why was she calling Harry Vol--You-Know-Who? She'd been in Dumbledore's Army with Harry. Was he possessed? He'd never said anything like this then, never used that high, frozen voice....

Quick as a cat, Harry was on his feet, laughing a laugh worse than Susan had ever heard in the Janus Thickey ward. Wispy bits of light floated from Ginny and toward him. Ginny's head drooped lower as she pushed herself to her feet. She didn't resist when Harry gently put his hands around her neck.

"_Mine._ Where is Harry?"

Ginny's eyes focused again and her submissive demeanor fell away. "Here. _Crucio_!" she shouted, knocking Harry back onto the mats. He was down only for a moment, then he ran toward her. She caught him again: "_Crucio_!" 

This time, she held the spell, and the cold laughter turned into a scream of agony. Susan slapped her palm against the wall, yelling a protest as Harry writhed in pain. "Stop it! Stop it now!"

As if in answer, Ginny lowered her wand, then pulled another from her pocket and tossed it to Harry as he sprang to his feet and rushed forward. He pointed his wand at her, and then wrenched it back with both hands so that it pointed at his head, shouting a Banishing Charm.

At the same time, Ginny ducked. A jet of blue light hit Harry full in the face, then rocketed around the room, knocking some of the ornaments from the walls. Finally, an explosion of the sky-blue light burst forth from all around Harry. A dull roar made the floor tremble beneath Susan's feet.

A second later, Harry's wand fell to the floor and Ginny, bracing her feet underneath her, caught Harry as he fell into her arms. Susan was almost positive that she saw Ginny brush her lips against his forehead before she lowered him gently to the floor. Straightening her skirt, Ginny tapped her wand against the papered wall to reveal a portal back into the outer office. Once it was resealed, the door next to Susan opened itself.

Susan wanted to hesitate. She wanted to think things through. But her feet carried her forward and into the other room. No matter what sort of evil demon had possessed Harry Potter, she had to make sure he was still alive. 

***************

Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


	5. Two and One half Hornswaggles Later

Chapter Five: Two and One-half Hornswaggles Later

As Susan crossed the threshold, a series of thoughts assailed her. The first: _Do no harm_. 

The second: _Don't let him harm you._ The third: _What if there is no other choice?_ She stumbled, trying to run toward and away from Harry at the same time. With a sharp cry she fell to the floor. She'd have bruises on her knees after this.

When Susan rolled Harry onto his back, his face was grayish and his lips were tinted blue. She put a hand to his clammy neck and her cheek near his mouth, watching his chest closely. A heartbeat, irregular and faint. Rapid, shallow breathing. He needed to be stabilized before shock consumed him, and for that to happen, they needed to be at St. Mungo's.

The door that Ginny had exited through had disappeared. Susan ran toward the one she had come in by, planning to break out that way. As she turned back, she saw that the room was L-shaped. Around the corner, a bed, a tall cabinet, and a wide counter lined the walls. In an instant, Susan changed her plans.

__

"Mobilicorpus!" Susan levitated Harry across the room, depositing him on his side, and covered him with blankets from a neatly folded pile at the end of the bed. She saved one, tucking it underneath his feet to elevate his legs. Then, on instinct, she flung wide the doors of the cabinet. Pointing her wand at Harry, she muttered stabilization spells while she examined its contents.

Almost everything a Healer could want was stacked on the shelves. Rolls of gauze, tongue depressors, Ogden's Old, willowbark tea in a round tin, icerplant gel, and a hundred other remedies vied for space with a cauldron and potion ingredients that even Professor Snape probably didn't have in his collection. There were some Muggle tools Susan was vaguely familiar with, such as a stethoscope and some ugly, sharp-looking needles.

She rummaged through the supplies until she found eye of Hornswaggle, a very rare--and very expensive--heartbeat stabilizer. A teapot turned up in a drawer, and she lit a burner for tea and another under the cauldron to make Hornswaggle ointment. Five eyeballs, mashed, had to be heated with olive oil for a minute. Susan checked Harry's pulse and breathing while she waited for the infusion to cool. 

As she worked, a little tune by her favorite wizard composers had been writhing around the back of her brain. When she unbuttoned Harry's shirt and smeared the Hornswaggle ointment across his chest, she was able to break concentration enough to hear it at last. _The question is, had he not been a thing of beauty, would she be swayed by quite as keen a sense of duty?_ a chorus sang in her ear. 

__

Of course, she snapped back at herself. Every girl she knew had had a crush on Harry at one point or another, and he was still compelling now, bony and thin and weak as he was. The Hufflepuff girls had spread a rumor that he'd been locked in an oubliette as a child, and that was why he was always so pale. It would take years for the sun to catch up to him. He had never really been handsome, but he was You-Know-Who's chosen. He had saved them once. When the war years came, everyone thought he would do it again.

But he hadn't.

The question was, why was he so important to the Ministry that they'd spend thousands of Galleons to keep eye of Hornswaggle, which was so perishable that it had to be replenished weekly, on hand?

Then, there was the other question. When and if Harry woke up, would he be as horrible to her as he had been to Ginny? 

There was no time to wonder. Harry's eyelids fluttered, and he reached up to straighten his glasses, which were askew on his face. "'Lo. Susan, right? You look different." He blinked a few times, gaining color in his cheeks. "I didn't know you had been trained. Did Neville recruit you?"

"No--what? No. Are you--are you Harry?"

Harry stared at her as if she were a three-headed dog. "You remember me, don't you? We were in Dumbledore's Army together."

Susan let out a nervous giggle and reached reflexively for her braid. She'd cut her hair to her chin years ago, but when she was flustered she still wanted the feel of pressure on her scalp. "Er, I'm the one who should be asking the questions. Do you know where you are?"

"I'm at the Ministry."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Hogwarts, same as you," Harry replied with a hint of a grin. 

So, death was not imminent. "What's your name?"

"Harry James Potter."

Susan spoke the next carefully. "Who is Tom?"

Harry's eyebrows drew together. "Why--didn't Ginny tell you?"

"No, she said we were going to be late, and then you two were horrible to each other..." Susan trailed off. "I wasn't even supposed to be here today. It was last-minute."

Harry rolled onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. "It's sort of hard to explain, and you're not going to like the explanation. However, you will need to know if you're going to have Ministry detail." He paused as Susan propped him up with pillows and he accepted her offer of tea. "It's a long story, and it started before I was born."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere until you're feeling better, and Ginny locked us in." Susan stirred sugar from a paper packet into her tea. "Or out--she wasn't quite herself either."

"She would have. Smart girl. You might have gone after her." A ghost of a smile flitted across Harry's face. "I suppose things looked sort of dodgy."

Susan sat down on the wheeled stool beside Harry's bed. She wasn't sure how to respond.

"Before I was born, Sibyll Trelawney made a prophecy so real that even Voldemort believed it." 

He examined his hands for a moment, allowing Susan time to wipe up the tea that she had spilled over herself. "_Trelawney_?"

"Voldemort believed that it was something more than what it was. And my godfather ended up dying for it. There was a part of it that said that one of us had to die by the hand of the other--either Voldemort or me. I think he'd have figured that out for himself, actually, although I've never quite believed that part. I think it meant--means--something else." He sighed. "The prophecy was here in the Ministry, but it was broken and set free. Voldemort eventually worked spells that relayed the whole of if back to him, as best we can tell from the Death Eaters that were caught and captured after the attack on Hogwarts."

"I remember," Susan said, even though she didn't really. She'd been at the Healer's Academy then.

"So I went into hiding, and Ron and Hermione came with me. But that couldn't go on forever. Do you know about Legilmency and Occlumency?"

Susan nodded. They'd made a cursory study of them at the Academy, along with how to heal complications of the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses.

"When Voldemort is in my mind, he can be hurt. I lured him there, let him believe that I would become his slave. Then, I killed myself."

"What?" Susan's teacup and saucer rattled in her hands. "You're alive. I mean, you're alive now, aren't you?"

"Yes, now. But when Voldemort was in me, I cast the Killing Curse on myself. I thought that I had succeeded. Nothing happened to _me_. Apparently, I've got some insurance against that particular curse." He flattened his fringe over his scar. "Wish I had known _that_ in advance. It took me a long time get my nerve up. Oh, don't look at me like that." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I can still get run over by a bus, just like anybody else. Especially if Ernie Prang is driving and the bus is purple."

"How," Susan asked, swirling the dregs of her tea around in circles, "or, why, did Percy Weasley kill him too?"

"There's a bit more in between, actually. We thought that Voldemort really was gone for good, but I started dreaming him again a month later. Hermione had gone to Bulgaria and Ron had a new job. The Or--a group had plans to announce Voldemort's defeat. The only thing I knew was that Voldemort didn't have his body anymore. That was fine by me; I'd managed to keep him at bay like that before. So, every morning, I Banished him."

"Professor Flitwick would be proud."

Harry looked pleased with himself. "He would, wouldn't he? Anyway, lucky Voldemort, getting to see the world. A new country every day. I just hope he doesn't take to possessing penguins." His smile faded. "However, the easiest way to keep anyone from looking for Voldemort is to let the world think he's dead. The attack that everyone remembers, outside of Gringotts'--you'll have read about it?"

"Actually, I was there," Susan supplied. "I saw Percy Weasley use the Killing Curse on Voldemort."

"That wasn't Voldemort. That was me."

Susan thought about this for a moment. "An illusion. So, who was Percy Weasley?"

"Percy was Percy." Harry drained the last of his tea. "He's been working for Dumbledore since before he left Hogwarts, even. Wasn't always the best at his work. Still, I think he's better at being Minister than writing reports about cauldron bottoms. He's got better with people, too."

"Percy--Percy wasn't--he's not the man I thought he was."

Harry's voice grew cold. "He's sacrificed as much as any of us. Look, I've only told you this to spare you trying to nose it out and asking questions of the wrong people. You need it to know why you're here and what to do."

She took the teacups to the counter. "Yes. I'm here to see that you recover. Your body has had an awful shock, and I want you to follow a careful treatment schedule. First, I'll want to see you tomorrow to make sure that there aren't any complications--"

"I don't think you understand."

Susan's gut told her not to turn around, to cover her ears, to run. Instead, she gripped the edge of the counter, bracing herself for what she feared was coming.

"Susan, Voldemort isn't dead. I have to do this every day."

"Every day," she repeated, watching afterimages dance across the backs of her eyelids. "You can't possibly."

"You're right. I let Ginny off holidays."

At this, Susan looked to see if Harry was having a bit of fun with her. He was rolling the edge of a blanket around his fingers, one at a time. "The Aurors used to take turns, but eventually all of them begged off. Ginny's the only one who stayed. Percy has to give her an official order to make her go home at Christmas." His voice turned to a raspy whisper. "I don't always remember it all. I know it's horrible."

She shivered. If that was what the man could do dead, she didn't want to run across the Dark Lord alive. "Maybe she could take it in turns with Ron, or Hermione?"

"No," Harry replied sharply. "They think things--they don't know. They think the Killing Curse worked the first time. I don't want them to know. And you aren't going to tell them. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"The existence of You-Know-Who doesn't exactly fall under the realm of--"

"Do you want word to get out? Do you want panic in the streets? Do you want to be labeled a liar in the _Daily Prophet_?" he continued, his voice rising.

"N-no," Susan stuttered.

"Then don't tell anyone. If you think you can't keep it a secret until you're relieved of Ministry duty, Ginny can Obliviate you before you leave today." He turned over to face the wall. "Besides, if I know her at all, she's charmed you to break out in all manner of warts and boils if you talk."

Susan remembered Ginny's wandwork when she'd first arrived. "All right. Give me your arm so I can check your pulse."

"My pulse is elevated, thanks. You can go now."

"Harry, I have to make sure--"

"I refuse further care," Harry said, enunciating carefully. "You are released from responsibility. The room has time-stamped this, and if I die now you won't be blamed. The doors should be unlocked, too."

Susan straightened up the supplies as best she could. It was in her mind to say something about rest and fluids, but in the end the sight of Harry's back, set firmly against her, caused her to leave as quietly as she could.

When she stepped back into the sunny outer office, Ginny was waiting behind a towering stack of paperwork. "There are some forms to sign. The Minister would like to see you first, please." 

Susan gave Ginny a wide berth as she entered the Minister's office. It, too, was brightly lit and pleasant. Percy Weasley sat behind a magnificently carved mahogany desk. His plain, carefully tailored robes were a stark contrast to the ostentatious display of wealth within the Minister's office. Since she had last seen him, he'd grown gray around the edges, and his face was softer, more thoughtful.

"How is our patient?"

"Well..." Susan considered how best to tell the Minister that it was none of his business. 

He seemed to have anticipated this, because he started rummaging in his desk. "It was a bone of contention with Healer Smethwyck, so you should know that I do have a release form, signed by Harry, that allows you to discuss all the details of his treatment and condition with me." He gave her a piercing look over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm sure you've discovered that he is our most precious natural resource."

"Perhaps he should be kept in Gringotts, then," Susan said stiffly.

"That's not what I meant." Percy gave up the search for the release form, slamming a drawer shut. "And as much as I would like to be interested in your opinion, Miss Bones, I'm very busy and far more interested in the health of the wizarding world's most valuable man." 

Susan bit back a retort. Percy was watching her closely, too closely for comfort. _He cares about the whole_, she thought to herself. "I can't believe he's lasted this long. It will kill him."

He nodded. "As I thought." 

Susan listened to the sound of their breathing. When Percy spoke again, his voice was strained. "All I ask is that you do your best. That's not merely a personal request. I ask on behalf of the entire wizarding world."

"I will," she promised in a whisper. 

"Have you been briefed on security matters?" Percy was all business again, referring to his notes. "You're not to speak of this to anyone except Harry, Ginny, and myself, for now."

"I'd got the general idea," Susan half-laughed, even though she felt like crying.

"Then let me give you the specific idea. There will be dire consequences--beyond anything Ginny's done--should you reveal anything about what you've learned here today." 

__

That wasn't a threat, Susan realized. _It was a promise._

Percy was calm as he showed her to the door himself. "Thank you," he said, and Susan believed he was sincere. She nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak.

In the outer office yet again, Susan took a chair in the corner and busied herself with the paperwork. _Did the subject seem taller than usual? Shorter than usual? Were there any noticeable changes in the subject's appearance? Did the subject exhibit loss of consciousness? If so, for how long? _

While Susan scratched her quill back and forth along the page, a string of Ministry workers, prominent citizens, and reporters tramped through the office to be shown through to the Minister or turned away. Ginny's all-business attitude was well enough when there were other people in the room, but when she went back to her paperwork, her chilly silence was unnerving to Susan. _Maybe I'll see if Auntie is about and visit with her before I go back to work_, she thought, using that as an excuse for hurrying through the records.

At long last the pile of parchment was face-down in Susan's lap. She shuffled the edges together with as much noise as possible to announce her imminent departure. "All done."

Ginny looked up from her work. "Do I need to Obliviate you, or will you be returning tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Susan said, "but I'm not going to walk away from this. However, I'm not in charge of the scheduling. Perhaps Healer Smethwyck won't send me again." Susan presumed that some sort of procedure was in place for wiping the memory of retired Healers.

Ginny snorted. "If it's between you and Smethwyck, you'll be back." She held out her hand for the sheaf of parchment. "Try to be a little earlier, so you can catch up on the records."

"Do you mind...I know I'll be asked all sorts of questions." _Muriel Hopkirk's probably drooling in anticipation of some new gossip_. "Officially, why was I here today? I want to make sure I don't let anything slip. Harry's safety is more important."

For the first time since her back in their days at Hogwarts, Susan saw a genuine smile cross Ginny's face. "Well, it's not _official_, but you may insinuate that the Minister suffers from hemorrhoids and needs daily care." She winked. "I thought that up myself."

***

  
  
***  
Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and her publishers. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. No one knows exactly who came up with the phrase 'first, do no harm.' It isn't actually in the Hippocratic Oath. The phrase 'The question is, were he not such a thing of beauty...' is from _The Pirates of Penzance_ by Gilbert and Sullivan. 


	6. HexAGone

Chapter Six: Hex-A-Gone

Amelia Bones hadn't been in her office, so Susan hadn't had any excuse to linger about the Ministry and had returned to St. Mungo's immediately. However, Muriel Hopkirk knew none of this; in her opinion, Susan had been gone too long no matter what the excuse. When Susan didn't even acknowledge her presence as she walked past the Welcome station on the way back to Creature Induced Injuries, Muriel knew that it was time to take action--even though she had the dimmest bit of an idea in the back of her head that Susan might simply have had other things on her mind as her face had been gloomier than usual when she walked past without saying anything. No matter; Muriel had a job to do, and she didn't depend on approval from Healers to get her tasks done.

She rolled from one end of her desk to the other, then settled herself back in her chair, using one foot to swivel it gently from side to side. Eleven in the morning was accompanied by a lull in patients, generally; in Muriel's thinking, that was because most wizards were ready for a cup of tea but hadn't got around to spilling it in their laps yet. She herself took this time every morning for a cup, precisely brewed with cream and two sugars. 

There was something lonely about a saucer all by itself, though. She had a wave of nostalgia for days past when her mother would lay out the Hopkirk china and an array of jellies and sweets. After a moment's hesitation, Muriel tore a sheet of parchment free from a pad and scribbled a note: _I miss you. Could we meet this afternoon for tea? I know you're busy_... She scribbled on, filling the page. Then, she whispered a tricky little charm and folded the note. With a flick of her wand, a pale violet airplane zoomed across the room and out the main doors.

__

There are so many things to be done, Muriel observed as she organized her desk drawer. Parchment clips here, ink there, the list of departmental contacts Spellotaped just so under the lip of the counter. She sharpened each of her quills and arranged them in a pleasant fashion in a lacquered can. She checked that each of the clipboards hanging on the wall was ready to take a patient's medical history. 

At a loss for what to do next, Muriel walked up and down the rows of chairs, lining them up side by side. She straightened and alphabetized the magazines while keeping in mind that this wouldn't last unless the next rash of patients was accompanied with a penchant for order. She even watered the ficus. A shout came from down the hall, but the problem was intercepted by one of the Floo entrance Healers, Muriel knew, when no patient appeared.

A tall wizard in brown robes levitated a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine through from the emergency entrance. Muriel was rather fond of this delivery man. "Oh, hello! Shall I sign for that?" she sing-songed, hurrying to intercept him. _Ooooh, he looks gooood today_, she thought, running her finger around her lips to remove any stray lipliner and smoothing her robes while the delivery man settled the package at the Welcome Desk. 

"Please--"

"And, could I offer you a cup of tea?" Muriel smiled her aren't-you-special-to-have-been-asked smile. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and let it hover above the delivery man's record.

"Sorry, no. Got to get a special delivery over to the Ministry," he replied, a little too jovially for Muriel's taste.

_The Ministry this, the Ministry that, today. _"Well, if you're certain..."

"Positive."

Muriel sighed as she indulged in a look at the delivery man's retreating form. He had such a nice...set of manners...and it was a shame that he couldn't stay longer. Someday she'd get him alone...she'd ask him to carry a delivery upstairs, then show him into an empty room, and the door would magically seal itself and they'd be trapped in there with nothing to do but snog until someone heard their plaintive cries for help... She shook her head, then Vanished the twine and paper even though the package was clearly labeled 'Hippocrates Smethwyck.'

The box was from Scribbulus Printing. Inside, there was a receipt (which Muriel binned) and a stack of forms. They were evaluations, but not any like she'd seen before. She could see at a glance that there were enough for every single staff member. 

A sly thought tickled Muriel right behind her left ear. Her family had donated money, sponsored fundraising balls, _founded the damn hospital_, and yet she'd never risen above the post of Welcome Witch. True, she considered herself a volunteer, and a valuable one--the salary was a mere pittance when compared to her inheritance--but that was no reason to sit back and admire the glass ceiling. She could help Smethwyck with the evaluations, and he'd be so grateful that he'd give her an office of her own. Something on the top floor with windows and her own personal secretary would be perfect.

Susan Bones could be first. Muriel filled in her name at the top of the page. She had to turn around and check the board--was it Susan, or Suzanne? Yes, Susan. How bland. Position: Healer. Service...Muriel scratched her nose with the end of her quill. "Approximately two years with no sign of advancement," she muttered as she wrote.

After that, the form got harder to complete. "Daily duties," Muriel narrated for her own pleasure. "Come to work. Look at the patients. Drink tea. Look at the patients again. Drink tea. Order the nurses around. Oh, let's see, drink tea. Check the entrance and act like a snob." Muriel thought a moment. Was it overkill? "Drink tea."

Muriel hummed a happy little tune as she flipped through her Rolodex, copying Susan's street and number down. "Let's see. Strengths: Putting nose in the air. Covering up for her loser boyfriend." Muriel felt a momentary flash of guilt, and moved to strike out the last. Neville had been nice enough to charm the ficus so it would never need watering--and as she looked up, it turned brown in protest and Muriel dropped her face into her hand. "Covering up for"--she scratched out _loser_--"idiot boyfriend."

Skipping ahead, Muriel attacked the section for 'Areas to Advance Achievement.' This would be difficult; there was so much to write and so little room to write it in. Shorthand would have to suffice. "Spectacles needed. No sense of humor. Split ends could be taken care of with a dose of Sleekeazy's." The next part was difficult to word, but Muriel tackled it head-on. "Needs more fiber in diet; this will help facial expression considerably."

Satisfied, Muriel set this aside and reached for another form. 'Roland Weasley, Nurse..." Before she could get any further, the door swung open and a crowd of reporters pushed their way inside with their hands over their faces.

__

Finally. I wasn't born to push a quill. Muriel laid her paperwork aside and flipped her hair out from underneath her collar so that the photographer could get a decent shot. "I'll be happy to answer any questions you have, ladies and gentlemen."

The photographer removed his hands from his face first. When he did, a fluttering black cloud formed and zipped toward Muriel, making her scream and cover her eyes. A moment later she removed her hands to flap them around her head. The cloud was pulling at her hair!

"WHAT is the MEANING of this?" she shrieked in ear-piercing tones. "Get these _things _OFF! Off! Off!"

"Dey're nob tings, dey're bads," the photographer offered as another cloud erupted from his nose. 

"Very bad," Muriel agreed. "Stop it!"

"We cad't," a reporter said, pulling her hands away to reply and releasing another nostrilful of winged mice into the air. "We cad't stop it."

The rest of the crowd started shouting questions and Muriel howled as she was buffeted with the disgusting creatures. Only by crawling under her desk was she able to think. What in the world was she going to do? She couldn't even shout for help over the roar of the reporters. As bats filled the room, the lights were growing dimmer and dimmer.

Muriel whimpered. The only thing worse than the dark was bats in the dark. Once, once had made its way into her room and she'd spent the night cowering under the covers and crying until morning. Why, one could have already bitten her. She pressed a hand over the fluttering in her bosom. When she got of this--_if_ she got out of this--a medicinal draught from the flask she kept locked in the bottom drawer would be in order.

Six deep breaths later, Muriel was starting to get herself under control. It would be simple enough to send an Emergency Code Charm across to the doctor board and page someone to come to the lobby. She'd just need a clear shot. Pulling her knees in tighter she wriggled around in the space under her desk. 

It was difficult to see through the cloud, and she'd only have one chance. It would have to be the right person, too, or Smethwyck would have her head for using the charm inappropriately. It didn't seem like something for Artifact Accidents, and even though there were horrid little creatures everywhere, the problem probably wasn't _caused_ by creatures. Not Bugs, not Plants...it would have to be Spell Damage. She swished and flicked and... nothing. She squinted. The Healers were having lunch.

"Derwent help me," she pleaded. She'd never been able to get a Healer who was on lunch before. "_That's what Emergency is for_," they always said, without regard for the fact that it was no good sending an EmergencyCode to the Floo entrance because it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

She was going to have to deal with this herself.

"_Finite Incantatem!_" Nothing changed. "Well, it was worth a try," she muttered, then crawled forward while grabbing a file folder to swat at the bats. "_Gous Aywaius! Skedaddle_!" She wracked her brain. "_Anitdraculosa!_"

Muriel couldn't suppress a snort. That was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever said. But, much to her surprise, a cluster of bats disappeared. Swishing and flicking, she cleared the room and turned her charm on the anxious reporters.

This stopped the influx of bats, leaving behind minor nosebleeds in the patients. Muriel knew what to do about this: She Summoned a box of Anti-Sanguinary Chews (marketed for a tenth of the price as Nosebleed Nougats on the open market) and began distributing them to her patients. "No, no, you've chewed the wrong end," she groused as the photographer began to hemorrhage onto the floor. "_Scourgify_. I have no idea what we'd ever need _that _end for. Now, who can tell me what happened?"

The answer was a muddle of grousing and swearing. "Ministry...she's the only one...can't fool her...pushed the wrong buttons...Bat-Bogey Hex...sensitive about Potter...brother..."

"All right." Muriel clapped her hands for quiet. "You will all need a jab for rabies. Standard procedure when there's been bats around. I'll need you to fill out some forms--" 

Her voice was drowned out by the resulting uproar. "Can't make me...not sticking me with anything...it's outrageous, the cost of medicine...should do an exposé..."

"QUIET," she roared. However, this did not have the desired effect. Normally, when she raised her voice, people _responded._ Not one of the reporters (not even the photographer) appeared to have heard her at all. "_Petrificus Totalus!"_ Muriel smirked as the obnoxious patients fell paralyzed to the floor.

A quick trip to the Apothecary station later, Muriel flipped her patients onto their stomachs with a wave of her wand. Another flick to get their robes up and underthings pulled aside, and she began working her way down the row. She averted her eyes from the sight, stabbing in the general direction she wanted. Muted yells told her that she'd connected, and she injected the dose of the potion that prevented rabies. When she was half-done, a rough cough startled her into opening her eyes. Smethwyck, and several Healers Muriel did not know, were gaping at her.

"What is the meaning of this?" Smethwyck's pale face had taken on an alarming shade of red and a vein throbbed in his forehead.

"I can explain," she began. On the other hand, there were half-naked wizards lined up on the floor--maybe she didn't want to. "You see, we had an emergency..."

"What in the world would possess--"

One of the other men held up a hand. "It's quite a recommendation to know that everyone at St. Mungo's is able to triage patients and administer remedies when necessary. Why, this is the most efficient setup we've seen." He scribbled notes while Smethwyck shot Muriel a look that clearly meant _I'll deal with you later._

When she administered the last innoculation, she flopped down on a chair. It was stressful listening to people in pain. She was temped to slip away and let someone else unfreeze the reporters, but decided that with a little breather she'd be ready to do it herself.

As she prepared to move on with her duties, a barn owl swooped in through the main door. It dropped a red scroll in her lap. With a frown, Muriel unrolled it and the words on the parchment flew into the air, burning, and a stern, cold voice read them in a voice so loud she had to cover her ears.

Our office has detected a charm to create a type of communication only allowed within the Ministry of Magic. As you may know, owls have been found to be inefficient for communication between Ministry offices, and alternate means were found. However, the Ministry code forbids that any witch or wizard use the charm outside of the Ministry building.

Furthermore, the use of this top-secret charm (so secret that we do not write it in messages that might be intercepted) to send a message between two buildings, especially when the message may be detected by Muggles, violates section 2417 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy and is punishable under law. You may remit the sum of seven Galleons, sixteen Sickles, and one Knut to the Ministry by owl. 

The use of company stationery for personal correspondence, while not technically illegal, is frowned upon by this office. 

Yours sincerely,  
**_Mafalda Hopkirk  
_**IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE  
_Ministry of Magic  
_P.S. I do not have time to meet you for tea as my work keeps me very busy.

The Howler exploded with a shower of sparks. Muriel let go of her ears. This was incredible. This was embarrassing. This was...not unexpected. Forlornly, she thawed her patients and went back to her desk. The reporters tiptoed out; they didn't even bother to whisper about her on their way out.

Something pricked at her eyes. When the first one rolled down to her chin, Muriel realized they were tears, hot salty ones. She had plenty of practice squeezing out tears when they gave her an advantage, but these felt...different. It was hard to swallow and her nose was running. Muriel heard herself whimper, and then sob, and finally she was bawling outright, great gasping cries unbecoming a Hopkirk.

"Are you all right?" A young woman with bushy hair who looked like she had slept in her robes was looking at her uncertainly. "I have a handkerchief here somewhere. Can I--can I get someone for you?"

"No," Muriel wailed. "You can't get anyone. You could-couldn't get anyone."

"Well, I'm sure I could, actually," said the girl, but Muriel ignored her and went on.

"J-just le-le-leave me _alone_. Can't you see I'm upset?"

This made the girl frown. "Yes, I can see that you are. Very upset, as I've cried that hard myself. I thought I would be pulled apart from the inside." She fumbled for a handkerchief. "Here it is. Blow your nose."

Muriel accepted the cloth and wiped her eyes. "Well, it's not that bad. I've simply had an awful day, awful. No need it take it out on you, dear." _Looks like you've got enough problems as it is, going about all rumpled like that,_ she thought. "Some days the world conspires against the best of us, and those whom we care the most about refuse to believe that we have their best interests at heart. It's not your fault, and there's nothing you can do about it, so don't worry your"--Muriel convinced herself that an idiom wasn't the same as a lie--"pretty little head."

"Maybe--maybe... Sorry, I'm Hermione Granger. Would you like a cup of tea? It might make things look a little brighter."

"Tea?" Muriel perked up at this. "I'd love a cup of tea. I know the perfect place, if you'll be paying. Shall we go upstairs?"

  
*********  
Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. No money is being made from this work of fanfiction. 


	7. Lucky Day

Chapter Seven: Lucky Day

Muriel bustled down the corridor in front of Hermione. "It's this way," she said impatiently, looking back over her shoulder at the slightly disheveled woman who simply wouldn't keep up. Muriel couldn't quite fathom what the problem was; if _she_ had circles under her eyes like that, she'd want an infusion of caffeine in her straight away. It wasn't seemly to walk around looking like the living dead. "Heeeeere we are," she trilled, stopping at the doors that opened into the tearoom.

Hermione clutched a hand to her side. Muriel felt a metaphorical finger of guilt shake at her, but she threw it off. _The girl could stand to lose a bit of weight_, Muriel thought nastily before remembering that she herself had little room to talk. She couldn't help it if her stout form was made for speed (or if the authoritative sound of her heels tapping against the floor always prompted her to set a brisk pace).

"Coming." Hermione paused to read the sign outside the tearoom. "Hopkirk Tearoom. I've never been here," she ventured. "Every time I've been to St. Mungo's, something has come along and prevented it."

"Well, then! I'm certain you'll like it." Muriel breezed past a sullen-faced attendant to a table near the windows.

"Hopkirk... Where have I heard that name before?" Hermione muttered as she seated herself on a chintz-covered chair.

"Everywhere, surely," said Muriel. She refolded a napkin so that it was fan-shaped rather than rectangular. "Hopkirk is an old, old wizarding name, and a highly respected one. If we weren't so modest, this would be Hopkirk Hospital instead of St. Mungo's. Anyway, the Hopkirk history has been passed along from generation to generation." She sniffed. "We often send our children to Beauxbatons, since the Hogwarts founders were too simple-minded for our liking. Oh, Slytherin was our class, but why he decided to associate with the rest of them..." 

She shook her head. "The Hopkirks educated their own children for hundreds of years, then started sending them to the continent for their education in the nineteenth century. However, it was standard for them to return here to take their place in society--to serve in the Ministry or to do charitable things. We have to preserve the old ways, you know, or the kids will grow up like Muggles. It wasn't until my sister and I went to Hogwarts that things started to change; of course, we don't have a Hopkirk on the board of governors, so the education there has never been what it could be. If you're in the habit of knowing the best people, or merely in the habit of reading bronze plaques anywhere outside that drafty old castle, you'll have heard of the Hopkirks."

Hermione sat back in her chair. Her mouth hung open a little. Muriel suspected that the girl was either very tired or extremely stupid.

Across the nearly empty room, two attendants nudged each other in the ribs. Finally, one managed to step on the other's toes and then push her forward. The second one stumbled and shot a glare at her coworker, but then walked toward Muriel and Hermione at a snail's pace.

"What may I get for you today?" the attendant asked. She looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

Muriel picked up her napkin. "First of all, I thought I made it clear the last time I came that the napkins were not, under any circumstances, to be folded into a rectangle. There are so many fascinating and interesting shapes, and I did not furnish the tearoom with linen to have it go unnoticed."

The attendant pressed her lips together. "I see."

"You more than see," Muriel went on, "you will _do_. Then, I must ask, when were these last dusted?" She picked up the silk flower arrangement from the center of the table and waved it in the air. "It might not _look_ dusty, but I can smell dust. This, young miss, is a hospital. We don't want anything dirty here."

The attendant interrupted, speaking through gritted teeth. "Is there anything I can get you for tea?"

"Well." Muriel looked affronted. "Well, yes. The usual." She waved the woman away.

Once the attendant had disappeared into the kitchen, Muriel rolled her eyes. "Honestly. You'd think they wanted the tearoom to resemble a barn! Just four years ago, we donated a large sum of money and had the tearoom named. Of course, I oversaw the redecorating."

Muriel watched Hermione survey the room, taking in the purple velvet curtains, the flowered armchairs and poufs, the lacy tablecloths, the gold-framed mirrors, and the porcelain cupids that hung from the ceiling.

"It--it..." Hermione seemed nervous. Muriel hoped she wasn't about to vomit on the imported carpet. "It looks like a valentine."

"Quite right. I chose the decorations myself, in honor of the fact that the tearoom was named on February the fourteenth. I've changed a few things over the years. I was thinking that a few marble statues would be nice. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione waffled. Their attendant wheeled a cart toward them. "Look, here's tea!" 

Muriel stood up and maneuvered the cart into position after telling the attendant that if she wasn't careful, she'd knock into something. Then, she moved the flowers to one side, replacing them with a plate of airy ladyfingers and jam. "How do you take your tea?"

"With lemon, please." 

Muriel obliged, then poured herself a cup, adding the milk and sugar last. Hermione didn't notice, though, confirming that she was one of the bourgeois. "So," Muriel said, to make conversation, "after all that, it mustn't come as a surprise that I myself am a Hopkirk. You may call me Muriel, if you like."

"Muriel--are you related to Mafalda Hopkirk, who works at the Ministry?" Hermione asked. 

"Sister," was the sour, terse reply. "Tell me your name again?"

"I'm Hermione Gr...Krum."

Muriel drew a sharp breath. "Not Hermione Krum, who was Hermione Granger...who was the girlfriend of Harry Potter?"

Hermione sipped her tea warily. "I wasn't Harry's girlfriend. If anything, I was... Harry and I weren't like that."

"Now, dear, you can tell me all about it." Muriel gave Hermione her slyest wink. "I know that when he went into hiding--what a way to keep You-Know-Who busy--that you went with him. Do you mean to tell me that you kept him at arm's length?"

"Yes." Hermione put her saucer down. "Yes, I did."

"Then it came as no surprise when you ran off with Krum."

"_What?_"

Muriel selected a ladyfinger. "That's what happened, isn't it? It was all over the papers here, at first.... Harry Potter doesn't save the world, then his girlfriend throws him over for a wealthy Bulgarian Quidditch player, who sticks his spoon in the wall under suspicious circumstances.... Of course, if I'm wrong, you could correct me."

"You _are_ wrong," Hermione returned coldly. "Ron and I stayed with Harry because he refused to have a Secret-Keeper, and he _did_ save the world--"

"Ron? Who is this Ron person?" Muriel interrupted.

"Ron Weasley--"

"Weasley? He wouldn't be related to the Minister, would he? We have a Roland Weasley who works here--not such an intelligent one, stupid even, and a nurse, can you believe it?" Muriel laughed.

Muriel's new acquaintance stiffened. "I think he's brilliant," she said, and then she poured the tepid contents of her cup into Muriel's lap.

After she watched the obnoxious child exit, Muriel swabbed angrily at her skirt with her napkin. "That will go on Weasley's next evaluation. Oh, yes."

***

Ron rolled over in his bed. His flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had one thing going for it: It was cheap. He got it for allowing Fred and George to fill the second bedroom with their overstock. After arriving home he'd managed a shower without passing out, but the hint of snail aftertaste had sent him to his room. He'd have given anything to be at home right now, waiting for his mum to bring him some tea.

He wondered if he could send an owl and ask her to come. Just for the day. Just to put a hand on his forehead and make mum-sounds and look up remedies in a Lockhart book. Thinking about it only made things worse. He could swear he smelled something cooking.

Ron clamped a hand over his stomach as it rumbled. He wasn't quite sure if that was a good rumble or a bad rumble. Finally, he kicked off the sheets and sat up, turning up the lamp and picking up the alarm next to his bed. It read: _Time you were asleep._ He sighed and put his head in his hands. If he couldn't shake this illness he'd have to take time off work, and, if he couldn't stop thinking about Hermione, he'd never get any sleep at all.

__

Oh, thought, _nightmare._ He could swear that he was sitting on the edge of his bed and looking at Hermione, who had come in bearing a heavily loaded tray. And, he thought, it was a good thing he was asleep, because he was starkers and who knew what Hermione would do if she walked in on him like that?

"Ron!" 

__

Bugger. Ron whipped his legs back up onto the mattress and snatched the covers up over his head. "Hermione?"

"I," she started, her voice squeaking, "I thought you were sleeping."

"So did I," Ron said into the sheets. 

"I, well, I brought you some soup."

"Okay. You can just leave it there and I'll eat it later." Ron squeezed his eyes shut tightly as she deposited the tray on top of his bureau. He wished himself far away, to no avail. He didn't hear anything more from her, though, so after a moment he dared chance a peek around the room.

Still there.

"We have to talk," Hermione whispered.

"I'm glad that you've had time to prepare your defense already, but I've been a bit under the weather," Ron said, aware that his voice had no bite. Hermione just kept looking at him with that _look_ that said he wasn't going to get out of it even though _she'd_ refused to talk about it once already today. He levered himself up against the headboard, careful to keep the sheets tucked around his lap. "All right. Have at me."

To his surprise, Hermione sat down next to him on the bed. "I'm sorry," she began, not meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry for not telling you everything. There are some things you deserve to know, some things about me, and Viktor, and me and Viktor, and why I left, and why I had to--"

Ron put a hand over her mouth. Her words came out muffled, and she continued.

"It wuvvent for da mummy. It wuvvent becuz I diddumt beweev in mysewf. I lieb." She wrenched his hand away. "You've been thinking all the wrong things about us."

Ron made a face at her. "Who says I've been thinking about us?" He knew, though, that he couldn't fool Hermione, especially not when he had this much skin exposed. His cheeks were growing warmer by the second.

Hermione grew very still. "Then I've been thinking all the wrong things about us, and I'm very sorry to have bothered you with it." 

She moved to get up but Ron grabbed her wrist. "You've--you've been thinking about us?" He pulled her arm across his chest and switched hands so that she couldn't pull away. He, for once, wanted to hear everything she had to say.

Suddenly, the alarm clock went off and they both jumped. Swearing, Ron leaned over, grabbed it with his free hand, and threw it against the opposite wall to shut it off. "Damn night shifts. Don't fuss at me about the swearing," he warned her preemptively. "Answer the other question."

Hermione tipped her chin up in the way that told him she was about to be very, very stubborn.

"Did you know," she said at last, "that I really, really dislike Muriel Hopkirk? But that I have her to thank?"

"Huh?" Ron was well and truly confused and Hermione hadn't even explained anything yet.

"I had tea with her today." Hermione scowled.

"Ah. Unfortunate." Ron put a pillow behind her and she scooted toward him to find a more comfortable position. She looked calmer now, and that had to be a good sign, didn't it?

"Very. She insulted me and she insulted someone I love."

Ron held his breath. He knew, he just _knew_, that if he said anything, he'd stick his foot right in it.

"Muriel Hopkirk said that I was Harry Potter's girlfriend and that I dumped him for Viktor Krum."

Ron felt like a balloon had popped inside his chest. Maybe he'd been thinking the wrong thing.

"Viktor asked me to come and see him because he was sick. He didn't want anyone else to know about it." She fingered the edge of the sheet absent-mindedly, which made Ron rather nervous. He had to concentrate on what she was saying, and if she wasn't careful, she was going to get an eyeful.

"Go on." He put his free hand over hers to stop her playing with the sheet. Unfortunately, this trapped her hand against the upper portion of his thigh. Changing tactics, he twined his fingers through hers and let their hands drop down to the mattress.

"He had--well, it's a sort of Muggle disease. He thought that there might be something magical that could save him, and that if anyone could help him, it would be me." Her voice wavered. "I tried, Ron. I tried everything. I thought that I'd discover a cure, and I don't think I slept the entire time. His family... His family was awful. They tried to have me deported, so Viktor and I got married. Then, there were endless strings of legal documents and every time that I thought they'd given up and decided to leave us alone, there was something else."

A tear splashed against his hand. "Don't cry," he tried first, wiping at her cheeks. "You did your best." 

Hermione didn't answer. Gathering a reserve from Merlin knows where, Ron put his arms around her awkwardly. "I know you did your best."

The tears turned into full-blown sobs, wet and breathy against his bare chest. He patted her head and shoulders. Somehow, it felt natural to run his hand over her hair once, and then again, and then over and over in a lulling, hypnotic cycle. He didn't know when it happened, but eventually they ended up scrunched down against the pillows with Hermione's head resting on his collarbone.

"That's not the worst of it, though. I poured my tea in Muriel's lap."

Ron couldn't help the laugh that escaped from between his lips. "Er, I'm sure it was just an accident."

"No." Hermione raised her head and looked Ron right in the eye. "I poured it in her lap on purpose. She insulted you."

The balloon that had burst only a few minutes earlier swelled to epic proportions inside his ribcage. "Hermione, I think I..." He swallowed hard. That was true loyalty.

It was now or never. 

"I think I like you better than the Cannons." 

He leaned forward and kissed her. There was something shaky and nerve-wracking about it, something like playing Keeper. He had so many things to think about all at once: how soft her lips were, how her hair was tickling his cheek, how he had to pay attention because kissing her felt so wonderful that he caught himself starting to forget to kiss back and only feel the things she did to him.

He pulled her higher against him, noting that she didn't seem to mind any. Now he could kiss her cheeks and neck and listen to the way her breath got raspy against his ear. He pushed her robe off her shoulder for more.

"Wait," she said, her voice muffled by a kiss.

The balloon deflated. He checked, though...still there. Hanging by a string.

"It's, well," Hermione began.

"You're very pink," he said, watching her turn a brighter hue.

"I haven't been home in two days and I need a shower and I don't want our first time to be like that," she said all in a rush.

"I've got a shower here," Ron said. He instantly realized that he sounded like a complete and utter prat. _Way to go_.

She smiled softly. "I know. But I need a little time to get used to the idea that I might be able to get what I want. And because I want to wait until the translations of the paperwork are complete."

"Okay--translations?" Hermione always went off on such odd tangents.

"The annulment. My annulment. Viktor and I...it wasn't like that. We managed it in the last days before he died." Hermione gave him a hasty peck on the cheek. "It was never supposed to be like...like _that_. Like this."

She stood up and brought Ron the tray of soup. After using a Warming Charm on the broth, she got up and readied her wand..

"Hermione," Ron said to stop her. "I meant what I said. About the Cannons."

"I know," she answered. With a wide grin, she Disapparated.


	8. Octopus and Sauce

Chapter Eight: Octopus and Sauce

"Oh Ron, I can't believe we're here together at last!"

Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, and Ron brushed a kiss against her upturned cheek. He gestured at the panorama before them. "I told you I had World Cup tickets. Box seats."

"Yes, you told me so." Hermione giggled while she caressed his bicep. "Flex again. Please, Ron?" Her eyes shone as she looked up at him in awe. "For me?"

"All right," he said. He stripped off his shirt, gratified to hear Hermione's gasp when the well-defined planes of his chest were exposed to her appreciative cinnamon-colored eyes. A few spectators seated nearby broke out in spontaneous applause; a woman across the aisle swooned.

"Oh, Ronald." Hermione ran her hands over his shoulders and down to his waist. "You're so strong and handsome and brave. Come on, get your arse out of bed."

"What?" Ron took both of Hermione's hands in one of his. They were so little. In a moment, he'd sweep her off her feet without any effort at all and take her down to the pitch so that she could get a close view of him releasing the balls to begin the match.

Her voice plummeted through an octave. "I said--"

"Get up, Ron."

Ron opened his eyes. The sun, even filtered through cloth, was too bright. He covered his head with a pillow and groaned.

"Oi." The covers were snatched away roughly. "Get your arse out of bed."

The cool temperature of the room against his bare skin was enough to get Ron upright and searching for a pair of shorts. "I was having a good dream, you wanker."

"Who? Me?" Harry looked around the room with an exaggerated expression of innocence. "What's this? Breakfast in bed?" He poked a finger at the dishes piled on the tray near the door. 

"Tea. Hermione brought it." Ron ducked his head inside a jumper so he wouldn't have to meet Harry's gaze.

"Hermione brought it," Harry repeated. "And you in your birthday suit, too." He snorted, then snickered, then sat down on the end of the bed, clutching his side and laughing. "So, did you show her the little weasel?"

"Haaaaaarry!" Ron swung his pillow around and smacked Harry so hard his glasses came off. "Nothing happened!"

"Nothing happened but you going to bed naked!" Harry said, sprawling across the bed to reach for another pillow. "Ron and Hermione, sitting in a tree--ow! Ow! The scar, Ron, watch the scar!"

"We know that hasn't hurt you in years, mate." Ron indulged in one last, satisfying blow against Harry's arms before he let up. "Now bugger off and let me go back to sleep."

Harry's eyes widened. Ron thought this made Harry look like he was all eyes, since his glasses were still somewhere on the floor. All eyes and skin and bones. Maybe Molly would invite them around if he sent an owl. Come to think of it, she'd mentioned she wanted them to come for tea in her last. Harry needed some fattening up.

"You forgot. I can't believe it."

"Forgot?" What in the hell was Harry on about now? Ron gave up the idea of having a lie-in.

"I came all this way--"

"Apparated down the street, you mean." Ron fumbled through a chest for a pair of trousers. He didn't have to work until tomorrow; the pair with the holes at the waist that Molly was always trying to bin would do. He needed to keep them for pick-up Quidditch games on the weekends. The conversation made sense all at once. "The match! Today! The tickets you got from somebody?"

He spun around. Harry was holding up two bright orange tickets. "Keep your trousers on. Match doesn't start for, oh..." He checked his watch. "Three minutes."

"Damn." Ron grabbed a pair of trainers and his wand, then reached for one of the tickets in case he didn't Apparate to the same spot as Harry.

It turned out to be a Portkey. Ron closed his eyes against the queasiness that came along with a Portkey ride. He'd never heard two people describe it in quite the same way. To him, it felt an awful lot like _whichwayisup_ crossed with _a bucketload of slugs_. 

When the world righted itself, Ron was standing within the concealed boundaries of Saskatchewan Pitch. A banner hung across the back of the stands announced _Seventeenth Annual International Exhibition Match, Sponsored by Magic Maple Furniture: The Only Chair That Will Change From a Rocker to a Recliner **and** Act As a Security Alarm_!

"You! Had too many already, eh?" A security guard pointed his wand at Ron's back. "The loo's over there, and if you don't cover yourself _right now_, you can expect a fine or a holiday in Herschel Island Prison."

"All right, all right, keep your, well. I'll just be, er, over here getting dressed, then." A cheer rose from the other side of the stands. "On my way." 

Ron took off running while he shoved one leg, then the other, into his trousers. After stepping in a puddle of butterbeer, he stopped to put on his trainers. He was far too excited to Apparate. The only solution was to sprint up the eleven flights of stairs to...

A box. A fabulous box. Ron checked his ticket again. He was in the right place. The floor was covered in thick, red pile carpet. Crimson velvet chairs, round and squashy like the ones he'd loved in Gryffindor, were scattered--_scattered_--around the box. Orange and gold paint licked flames up the walls and there were complimentary Omnioculars, refreshments, and programs on a table to one side. 

The shrill whistle of the referee starting the match brought Ron forward to the railing. The Quaffle was up...and the Meteorites took possession. Ron settled back into a chair with a happy sigh. But where was Harry?

The Portkey was a tiny circle of tin, stamped with the logo _PoRtKeyFeVeR_ and glued to his ticket. Ron scraped it off with his fingernail. Of all the places he could have touched, he'd had to touch the Portkey. Brilliant of Harry to have thought it up. Miniature, one-way Portkeys were doing a booming business with long-distance travelers; it was cheaper and faster than waiting in long lines for the International Floo Network and easier than Apparating. They'd have had to Apparate several times to get to the match and they might not have made it on time. Of course, Harry hadn't.

Ron listened to the Meteorites fans chanting with half an ear. Where_ was_ Harry? Probably didn't know that the box was catered, most likely. Down waiting in line for a butterbeer instead of trying the spread here. With one eye on the game, Ron picked up a plate and took the cover off a platter.

Some sort of tentacles in sauce. Maybe he _had_ known about the catering.

Forgoing the octopus, Ron turned his attention back to the match. There would be a time-out sooner or later. With the Cannons, it was usually sooner. 

***

__

"Cannon Chaser Barnabas passes to Edwards, Edwards to Cooney, and Cooney back to Barnabas. Barnabas heads down the pitch--he ducks a well-hit Bludger from Meteorite Parker, and aims for the goal--he drops the Quaffle! The game stands at three hundred and twenty to forty, Meteorites."

Ron heard Harry before he saw him. He sounded like he was breathing through a paper sack. "A lot of stairs will do that to you. Where've you been?" He watched the Cannons give away another ten points. "Decide to walk?"

Harry wheezed something inaudible. Finally, Ron managed to tear his eyes away from the game. Harry had both hands clutched to his chest and his face was ashen. Here, in the full afternoon sunlight, Ron got his first real look at Harry in weeks. He had dark circles under his eyes and his collarbone looked painfully sharp. 

"Apparated," Harry forced out.

"What happened to your Portkey?" Ron knelt down beside Harry's chair and put a tentative hand on his back.

"Didn't ha Por'key."

Ron was confused. "There was only one?" He'd taken Harry's, then. Shit. "Didn't you want to Apparate?"

Harry grinned in a way that someone who didn't know him would think sheepish. Ron knew it as the company smile. It was as false as one of Lockhart's books. "Takes a lot out," he gasped, "of you."

"You're a champion Apparator. Remember that time when you Apparated and took me and Hermione with you to Fortescue's when we didn't even want to go?" A funny feeling had settled in Ron's stomach just as if he'd actually eaten the octopus. Or some of Hermione's beloved snails. "Maybe we should get you to a Healer."

"No." Harry shook off Ron's hand and leaned his head against the back of his chair. His chest rose and fell irregularly. "Just, no. No Healers."

"Then you're going to have to start breathing normally." Ron moved his hand back to Harry, closing a hand around his wrist. As casually as he could, he checked Harry's pulse. Rapid and shallow. 

"Then give me a minute."

Ron backed off, thinking. He wasn't sure what sorts of things would be available here at the pitch. A nurse, probably, with willowbark tea and some bandages for the fans. There would be a Healer traveling with each team, though he didn't stand a chance in hell of getting through security to one. He poured a glass of water and held it out to Harry but then thought better of it. His lips were blue. "Harry. Breathe."

"Fuck off a minute. I'm...trying."

"No, you fuck off a minute." Ron slammed the glass down. He reached one arm around his friend and hooked the other under his knees. He hefted him and nearly fell over backwards; Harry was lighter than he'd thought he would be. He struggled for a moment against Ron's grasp and then lost consciousness. _Dear Merlin, please don't let us get splinched._

Moose Jaw. _Crack._ Montreal. _Crack._ St. John's. Thule. Reykjavik.

One last leap, and they were on the rain-slicked roof of St. Mungo's. Ron kicked open the doors in his path. Nurses scattered, then followed, their questions running together. He stumbled past the main entrance toward the Emergency Floo.

Susan was arguing with Muriel about something, but when she caught sight of them she stepped in Ron's path. "There you are--I've been worried sick since you left without--are you--is he--take him to curtain three, Ron."

"Move and I will!" Ron snapped back. He pushed past her and found a bed for Harry down the hall. While Susan fumbled with a cart, he rested his patient on the mattress as gently as possible. "His pulse is rapid and shallow," he said as Susan checked for one.

"Not anymore." Susan glanced up. "What did he say before it happened?"

"Say? Do. He Apparated. But that shouldn't have been a problem for him." Ron reached for the bottle of bloodroot on the top shelf. "Bloody hell. It's empty. You," he said, pointing to a nurse, "check the other carts until you find some."

"And you get out," Susan ordered him. 

"I have every right to be here."

"No, you don't. You're not in your scrubs, you're not on the clock, and you're not under the hospital's direction. You're a liability. Out." Susan injected something into Harry's arm and pocketed the syringe before he could get a look at what it was.

Ron seethed. "He's my best friend."

"And you're not blood relations. Now, out, or I'll have you thrown out." 

Susan's eyes flashed and Ron felt like breaking something. She was following policy: He wasn't allowed to do any work in the hospital when he wasn't on duty. If he were two steps outside, he could--and would--save someone's life; inside, the threat of a malpractice suit reigned supreme. She was right. But he hated it. 

"Why don't you go get your sister. He'll want to see her when he wakes up."

The reassurance that Harry would wake up was so strong coming from Susan that Ron didn't even think her request odd. Susan never lost patients. Not that he knew about, anyway.

***

A week later, Susan was on a midnight patient check when Harry woke up. She'd had him transferred up to Creature-Induced Injuries, and after Smethwyck ran into Ginny during visiting hours, he'd turned over all aspects of Harry's care to Susan.

Light from a half moon illuminated Harry's face. His eyes were wide and dark, and Susan wasn't sure he was awake until he spoke. "Who won?"

"What?" Susan whispered back. She put a hand to his forehead.

"Never mind. Could I have my glasses?"

"Oh, of course." She picked them up from his bedside table and polished them awkwardly on her sleeve before handing them over. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been asleep for a week." Harry settled his glasses on his nose.

"You have been asleep for a week," Susan noted. "Missed all your visitors. Even the chief of staff paid you a visit, although it was just the one. He saw Ron's sister and left quickly. I take it she's not too fond of him. Do you want some water? Are you hungry?"

"Water, please. I'm not fond of him myself. He grabbed Ginny's backside one day after a...session. She kicked him in the crotch and we ended up sending for another Healer. Neville eventually got him walking well enough to go home."

Talking about Neville made Susan ache in that region where her heart was supposed to be. She picked up Harry's chart to cover her discomfort. A stack of parchment, mocked up to discourage Ron and Hermione, covered a brief summary file that she'd brought over from the Ministry and hidden with a Disillusionment Charm. Hopefully, neither Ron nor Hermione had noticed that the sheaf was slightly larger than a read-through would suggest. 

"Nobody knows anything. Except Ginny, of course. However, you gave your friends quite a scare, and we'll need to come up with a story." Susan peered around the room; the only other patient on the ward, an elderly man who'd eaten a Malaclaw and lived to tell about it was sleeping peacefully. "I was going to suggest--"

"I'm dying."

Susan felt herself go very still. "You want to. You think it will kill You-Know--_him_."

Harry nodded. "Maybe."

"What if it doesn't? What if the prophecy you told me about only means that you have to hang on? I can start you on salamander blood infusions and we can look for some way to end this. Surely he can't live long without a body."

"But he has one. Mine. I'm tired of sharing." Harry closed his eyes. "So tired."

"Harry," Susan began. She didn't know what to say. She was supposed to talk about treatment options and only if all else failed would she talk about death. "I think you should talk to Hermione."

"Hermione doesn't know."

"I know she doesn't. I've done my best to ensure that. Hermione's the one who came up with the loyalty measures for Dumbledore's Army. She learned how to make Wolfsbane Potions in sixth year. She came up with that Arithmancy theory that explained how the charms to heal broken bones work." She sat down on the bed. "I studied at the Healer's Academy with the Healer herself. Not her underlings. I'm no Hermione. If there's anyone who can find something..." She trailed off. Harry was listening, but not hearing.

"I don't want her to know. She'll worry."

***

Susan left Harry in the first natural sleep he'd had in a week. She hadn't got anywhere with him, except to come to an agreement to assert that he'd had an allergic reaction and a high fever that had knocked him flat. It had been a terrible admission to tell him she couldn't do more.

And sooner or later, probably sooner, he'd die.

She stopped at the medical records and research room. The drowsy attendant sat at a desk, dealing a game of solitaire. On one side of the room were shelves upon shelves of patient charts; on the other, there were bookcases full of medical books and more could be borrowed if there was need.

"Pull me everything you have on possession. In fact, pull me everything you have on possession and have it sent by owl to my flat." She scribbled her number in Fine Alley on a request card. The attendant dated it and shuffled sleepily toward a card catalog.

Yawning, Susan wandered down to the main entrance. A nurse sat behind the Welcome Desk to direct the few who didn't come to the Emergency Floo after midnight. Susan nodded to her and walked near to the schedule while unpinning her badge. Her status shimmered and became _off duty_. Next to it, a sparkling addition read _returns Wednesday to supervise Creature-Induced Injuries trainee_.

So. Earlier than she had been expecting, by several days. They were eager to be rid of her, apparently. Or to move her to a new department. Time to think of that later. Time to get some sleep.

***


	9. Lives Like a Cat's

Chapter Nine: Lives Like a Cat's

"Soooooooosan."

Susan halted, one foot on the first step. She didn't turn around. "Yes, Muriel."

Muriel bustled up beside her. "When I got this absolutely _enormous_ pile of paperwork this morning, I was dreadfully confused. You're to be given a trainee, but I thought it must mean that you were being transferred to a different department again. Poor thing, always a replacement, never tenured." She paused to give Susan a patronizing smile.

"Yes, Muriel," Susan said again. She grasped the railing and turned to go on up the stairs.

"It's almost unheard of for an untenured Healer to have a trainee."

Susan took a deep, calming breath. Muriel was studying her lacquered nails closely.

"Yes, Muriel, but most Healers with my experience have been tenured in a specialty already. So it's not a matter of rank, it's a matter of skill."

"Hrm. Well, anyway, here is the paperwork you'll need for the evaluations. Be sure to fill everything out correctly, because if you don't, I won't feel comfortable forwarding it to Smethwyck for his signature." Muriel handed over a thick stack of parchment. "This came for you--oh, a week or so ago--as well," she said, handing over an envelope of more standard proportions. "And Smethwyck wants to see you."

"When?" Susan asked.

Muriel glanced at her wristwatch. "Immediately."

Susan Apparated up to Creature-Induced Injuries to get away from Muriel. It was a quiet morning on the ward. Most of the beds were empty, she discovered, and the patients in the occupied ones were well on the mend. A pair of nurses gossiped quietly at their station while Goyle napped in a corner.

In an office that had been converted from an old supply closet, Susan had a desk and chair. She very rarely found a moment to sit down, and took most of her paperwork back to her flat to finish rather than spend time in the cramped, claustrophobic room.

She tossed the heavy envelope on top of a pile of charts that needed to go back to the records room. Those could be Banished later. Then, she closed the door deliberately--_Can't remember the last time I did that on purpose,_ she thought--and picked up the smaller of the two envelopes Muriel had given her.

At first, she couldn't bear to look at it. She'd avoided it all the way upstairs, and the moment she looked, she'd know. For certain. She wasn't convinced she wanted to know because the disappointment would be awful if her guess was wrong.

If it wasn't a letter from Neville... It had to be from Neville. He was the only one who sent her letters at work, not trusting the owls to find her flat on the basis that _he_ could never find her flat. She ran her fingers along the folded edges of parchment and over the seal on the back. Was that an 'L'?

Holding her breath, Susan closed her eyes and extracted the letter by touch. She smoothed it out on top of her desk carefully gave in to the temptation to peek. In the top right-hand corner was a month-old date in a familiar scrawl.

Dear Susan, it began.

> How have you been? I've been well except for a few stomach upsets   
when I drank the water. You and Gran both told me not to, so it's no   
one's fault but my own that I forgot to use an Anti-Parasitical Charm.
> 
> Brazil is really warm and muggy. It's hard to keep my clothes dry,   
and cloth tends to rot quite quickly here. I think I've found the   
solution, which is to wear as little clothing as possible. Even out in   
the middle of the jungle, Hogwarts is a useful connection to have; I've   
run into fellow alumni and joined with one for research and study.
> 
> Yesterday I found a stand of Harmony Palm. I've got its location   
mapped, so future trips need not be so long. I think it will take about   
a month to harvest enough to see us through the year. That is, if I don't  
get distracted any more than I already have been. There are so many new   
and interesting magical plants here that I don't think anyone has ever   
catalogued, so some of my free time is given over to that.
> 
> I've also been collecting salamander blood. Something tells me that   
St. Mungo's is going to need to have a lot of it on hand. I'll let you   
know more about that when I get back if Smethwyck agrees.
> 
> Also, Susan, when I get back, we need to talk. I've been thinking about  
you a lot while I've been away, and there are some things that need to be  
said between us face to face. I have really big news. You mean a lot to me,   
and I want to do the right thing by you.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Neville

Susan mashed her fingers against her mouth to stifle a shout of glee and wiggled in her seat. He was going to get down on his knee this time instead of simply asking her to wait for him until he came back. There were going to be butterflies and flowers and bunnies and bouquets and veils and bridesmaids, as many as she could handle. Perhaps even a flock of flower girls.

And Neville was fine, fine and dandy. If he'd written this a month ago, he could be back any day. Any minute. Any _second_.

She ran her fingers through her hair after tucking the letter inside her pocket and pinched her cheeks for color. Then, she sprinted for Smethwyck's office.

"They'll be expecting you every day this week. However, this doesn't exempt you from getting your trainee acquainted with our facility, so I've come up with a modified schedule. You'll go to the Ministry first thing, then come back here for rounds and training in addition to supervised Healing."

Susan looked over the schedule Smethwyck had drawn up. "First of all, I thought Potter wasn't going to continue, and second, when am I supposed to sleep?"

Smethwyck dismissed the last with a wave of his hand. "You're a Healer. You don't need to sleep. Also, why would you think Potter wouldn't continue?" He lowered his voice. "He has to go back to work. I signed his release papers myself."

"He's supposed to be resting and not..." Susan checked to be sure the office door was closed. She lowered her voice. "He's not to banish You-Know-Who until his strength returns. You'll kill him!"

"Isn't that the point?" Smethwyck asked, tilting his head to one side. Susan hated, more than ever, the thick lenses that obscured his eyes. If he was shifty, she wanted to be able to see it outright. "Potter believes his death will finish--

"No," she answered. "The point is to keep him alive. Or at least, I won't see him harmed further."

The chief of staff leaned back in his chair and set it swaying from side to side. He chewed absently on the end of a pen. Susan found this discomfiting not for the action, but because Smethwyck was one of the few wizards she knew who eschewed quills. It made him look even creepier than normal.

"Miss Bones." Smethwyck removed the pen and leaned forward. "Yes, your job as a Healer is to treat the injured and cure the sick. But it also means that you attend the dying and ease the pain of their passing. When death is inevitable, we are not to interfere. Did you learn nothing from your Muggle Medicine courses? How they torture the soul long after the body has gone beyond _because they can_?"

Susan swallowed. She'd gone with her classmates to hospitals to see people, withered and frail, breathing and eating because strange mechanisms forced them to go on even through they were no longer alive. "Sometimes people have to believe in miracles," she whispered.

Smethwyck snorted and stood up, Susan's cue that the meeting was finished. He shook his head as he ushered her out. "There's no such thing as a miracle," he said firmly, and then he shut the door against protest.

Muriel bent over the Welcome Desk, tucking her arms in close to push her cleavage into the best angle for viewing. "Oh dear! I've dropped my quill!" She put a hand to her blushing cheek. "How clumsy I am. Would you be so kind?" she asked the godlike figure before her.

The new Creature-Induced Injuries trainee was the very best thing she'd seen since the invention of the Eighteen-Hour Charm. Muriel surreptitiously straightened her collar as she watched the back of the trainee's trousers tighten lovingly across his adorable tush when he bent to retrieve her quill.

"Here you are, madam," he said, bowing gallantly and flourishing the quill. Muriel felt her pulse quicken at the way his white teeth flashed when he smiled and the way his bronzed chest was visible because he left the top button of his linen shirt open beneath his Muggle lab coat. His mahogany-colored hair shone in the florescent-charmed light of the reception area.

Muriel accepted the quill with a delicate hand. "You must be our new trainee.... Yet, I could swear I've seen you somewhere before." She licked her lips in preparation for the coming falsehood. "Were we at Hogwarts together?"

The trainee leaned a hip against the side of her desk. "I'm wracking my brain, really, but I didn't get to know all of the younger girls when I was there." He cocked his head and grinned. "I'm sure I'd remember you if we had. A face like yours is simply unforgettable."

Oh yes. I will have to remember to tip the stylist for getting all the gray out. "We must have missed one another, because we would certainly remember meeting," she agreed.

He glanced from side to side and crooked a finger so that Muriel would lean closer and spoke in an undertone. "Also, the family doesn't like to talk about it much right now, because of the one..._upstairs_...but I've got some Lockhart blood on my mum's side."

"Perfect!" Muriel clapped her hands in glee. She'd always wanted to marry a Lockhart. Or move up to work in an administrator's office. Either would do. "I should have seen it. Still, you're one of a kind." She sat down and rummaged through her inbox for the paperwork she needed. "Here we are... Your name badge, training schedule, a map of the hospital... Now," she said, crossing her fingers beneath her desk, "it's tradition for the Welcome Witch to get you tea for your first week, so any chance you find, come down and bother me."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he said and gave her a kiss on the back of her hand.

"Oh!" Muriel gasped. Luckily, the very person she wanted to see (but not really) came along, and she could cover up her outburst. "Susan! This is your new trainee."

Susan, sour-faced as always and with extraordinarily messy hair (not to mention too much rouge) for the workplace, halted on her way through the reception area and stuck out her hand. "Susan Bones."

Muriel's newest hero shook hands with aplomb and she shuffled the parchment on her desk, feeling a thrill of anticipation go up her spine. This was going to be just what the doctor ordered.

"Thessalus Smethwyck."

Muriel was overjoyed by Susan's reaction. She'd never seen skin turn quite that shade of green before.

"Weasley!"

Ron held up a quill. "Jus' sec. Don't interrupt when I'm doing dosage figures." He continued to mutter a string of numbers, jotting down notes on a bit of parchment, and only stopped when he realized Susan's breathing was almost as audible as when patients came in with that athem, aserm...Muggle lung thing. "Getting a cold, Susan?"

Susan's chest was heaving alarmingly. "I need to go," she said with clenched teeth. "Harry duty--and I need a favor. I'll do what ever it takes to repay you--"

"What duty?" Ron broke in. "Is he back in hospital?"

"Er, no..." Susan wrung her hands and bit her lip. "Er, it's code for 'treating the Minister of Magic's hemorrhoids.' You see, we're not supposed to tell that around, and your brother's fairly--"

"Stop stop stop stop stop!" Ron covered his ears with both hands. "If you'll stop, I'll do whatever you want. Only, please, no more talk about Percy's bum."

Susan grinned weakly. "I'm supposed to give the new trainee a tour of the building but, like I said, I have to go out. It needs to be finished this morning. Could you do it?"

Ron felt his lip curl in disgust. So, Susan wasn't getting her six-month certificate again. As a nurse, he himself enjoyed moving from ward to ward every shift. It made for interesting variety. He'd hate to be a Healer, committed to one specialty at a time...

I'd hate to be a Healer.

The thought nearly bowled Ron over. He _liked_ his job. He might like others more, sure--if the Cannons came knocking, he'd drop everything and make a break for it--but he liked his job. He was competent at it. Maybe even _good_ at it.

"All right, then. I'm off duty in two minutes, and I'll show the"--he glanced at the man in the Muggle lab coat, who lingered just out of earshot--"bloke around."

"I owe you, Weasley." Susan took off at a clip.

Ron scratched behind his ear with his quill and scribbled his name at the bottom of the chart before approaching the trainee Healer. "'Lo. I'm Ron Weasley, and I'll take you around the wards until Susan comes back. You're..."

The other man smiled in a way designed to disarm both genders. It didn't work on Ron; he thought it made the fellow look like his second least favorite Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. "Thessalus Smethwyck at St. Mungo's service."

"Smethwyck, like Hippocrates Smethwyck?" Ron felt a frisson of something akin to bad snails writhe in his gut.

"Why, yes!" Thessalus ran a hand through his coffee-colored curls. "He's my father."

Ron decided it was very lucky that he was off-duty at the moment, or else he'd have to re-evaluate his love for his job.

He flipped on the light switch. "This is where we keep extra robes and such, because sooner or later a patient's going to get something all over yours. Inevitable if you're going to be working in Potion and Plant Poisoning, and occasional in the other wards too."

Thessalus fingered the robes hanging on a makeshift rack. "These certainly aren't the finest of linen, are they?"

"They'll do in a pinch." Ron rolled his eyes behind Thessalus's back. "Now, just down the hall is the Emergency Floo." He led the way back toward the reception area. "You'll be spending a half day there as part of your introduction to the hospital."

"Oh, I'm sure I won't need to do that." Thessalus shuddered gracefully next to him. "Could be dangerous. And hazardous to one's social career! What if someone _died_ while you were treating them? You'd never be invited to tea again."

"Er, that's why people come to the Emergency Floo. They're dying. Some of them are going to die no matter what you do for them," Ron said, trying his best not to punch Thessalus in the nose. Half an hour and he'd never met someone who needed punching more, except maybe Malfoy. "You'd better get used to it."

"Are you threatening me?" Thessalus asked with a deceptively pleasant smile.

I must not murder the chief-of-staff's son. "Just stating the facts."

Muriel waved to them as they passed by. "Are you in the mood for some tea, dear?"

Ron breathed a sigh of relief when he realized Muriel wasn't addressing him, but his unfortunate charge. "Go on, then," he said, though neither was listening.

"I'd love a cuppa, my dear." Thessalus tucked Muriel's hand under his arm. "Ta, Wellesley."

"It's _Weasley_." Ron watched them go, shaking his head. He checked to be sure that his status was correct and noted that the words _at Ministry of Magic_ were next to Susan's name. Another reason to be glad he was a nurse and not a Healer, and another reason to be glad he was related to Percy. Luckily, Percy was uptight enough to avoid asking his family members for help when it related to anything involving any parts hidden by his robes.

Turning to go, Ron caught sight of Hermione coming in through the Purge and Dowse Ltd. entrance. He straightened his robes and hoped she wouldn't notice the grindylow bile stain on the hem. "Hermione! I thought I was supposed to meet you after--"

"I didn't want to wait," she said rather irritably.

"I knew it," he crowed. Ron twined his fingers through Hermione's and dragged her to the robe room. _I **am** irresistible_. He ignored her exasperated cry of "_Ron_" and pulled her inside the closet, locking the door with his wand before dropping it on the floor with a clatter and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "I knew you wanted me like I wanted you. I haven't been able to think of anything else all day." He slid a trail of hot kisses down her neck. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Hermione stuck her elbow in his ribs. "I want you to stop it and listen to me."

Ron backed off a step and rubbed his side. "What did you do that for?"

"I can't--I can't think straight when you do that!" Hermione sputtered.

"Good." Ron felt his face get warm and his lips twist into smile. "Thinking is overrated, Hermione." He put his hands on her waist and pulled her close again. Her mouth was delicious. She'd been eating some sort of strawberry-flavored sweet, and her lips were smooth as silk.

"No." She turned her face away.

"Later?" Ron asked, hoping it wouldn't be much.

"We have to find Harry," Hermione said. She took a deep, hitching breath.

Ron swallowed hard. "Er, he's my best friend and all, but I don't think I'm quite that adventurous."

Hermione shook her head. "There's something wrong with him. He hasn't been answering our letters and he's supposed to be resting, but is he at his flat? No. He's been going to work. His neighbors haven't seen him in a week. I'm worried, Ron."

"Well," he said, reaching up and fingering a bushy curl absentmindedly, "when he finishes today we'll tell him off and make him stay in bed for a while."

This wasn't enough for Hermione. "I have a better idea. I want you to go straight to Percy and tell him to give Harry a holiday."

"Percy does what he wants to do. If Harry wanted to, he could ask for himself."

"But he won't." Hermione pushed him away. "He's depressed and throwing himself into his work because he doesn't want us to notice and see how awful he's feeling. You're the only one who can step in. You're his best friend, and you're the Minister's brother. Please?"

Hermione had never pulled such a miserable trick on him before. She probably thought that her argument was saving the day, but it was the tears welling up in her eyes that did him in. "Fine," he said, throwing his hands into the air and wondering why Bill or Charlie couldn't have been Minister instead.

"I'll hold that," Ginny said, taking the wastebin in one hand. "I have some motion-sickness pills in my desk. Muggle stuff, but effective." She whispered to Harry in an undertone and rubbed his back.

Susan let Ginny take over and Percy moved out of the way as well. Harry had only made it halfway across the outer office before starting to projectile vomit, and the commotion had brought Percy out of his private meeting in a hurry to set a Silencing Charm around the area. He'd followed it up by locking the Australian Minister in.

She held up a bottle of pills. "The problem is going to be getting them in." Susan read the directions on the side and twisted the top. "Not to mention opening the stuff."

"Push down and turn," Ginny replied and used her wand to clean up Harry's robes and the mess on the carpet.

As she finished, the doors to the corridor swung open and Ron and Hermione marched in. "Now see here, Percy, you're to let Harry take a holiday before you kill him," Ron proclaimed.

The pair stopped in their tracks. "What's happened? What's wrong with Harry?" Hermione demanded.

Susan fumbled for an answer while Percy hurried to close and lock the outer door. She wasn't good at coming up with lies on the spot. "You remember those fruit flies we had such a problem with in Diagon Alley? They're gone now, and a few wizards have the fruit flu."

Ron glared around the room, finally stopping on Susan. "What you said earlier about Ministry duty. You didn't care about Percy's bum at all. You were talking about Harry."

Harry spit into the wastebin. "So you told them about Voldemort. What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"And what's this about my bum?" Percy put in.

Susan cringed. "Oops."

"And what's this about Voldemort?" Ron wanted to know. He and Hermione exchanged worried glances.

Susan raised her hands defensively and turned to Harry. "I didn't say anything about that to anyone."

This time, Harry grimaced. "Oops."

> > 


End file.
